Love Knows No Boundaries
by Ivory Winter
Summary: John and Sherlock wake up on Westminster Bridge and find themselves in 19th century London. While they try to figure out what happened and how to get home, they must adapt to new surroundings, their feelings for each other, and investigate the most enthralling unsolved case of all time.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

A/N: Hi there! For those of you unaware, I originally started this story some months ago but stopped posting it when I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. After spending some time writing and rewriting, I'm finally ready to start afresh with a brand new chapter. I'm pretty sure this premise has been covered before, but please bear with me and I hope I can make it worth your while! A warning in advance, this will contain pre-slash and later slash.

Enormous thanks to the wonderful Rairakku1234 for reading and critiquing this (and future chapters), and without whom I would probably still be languishing over this story, not knowing why it doesn't read the way I want it to! Please review if you have the time, I very much like to hear other thoughts on what looks good and what needs work. Enjoy!

* * *

John was in a state of bewilderment; he couldn't decide whether this was a dream or reality.

He hadn't experienced such disorientation since his shoulder surgery in Afghanistan. Back then, gargantuan quantities of pain medication had left him feeling next to nothing. But while still deep in disarray, his mind failed to even formulate a connection to this older incident. The only power left to him was to wonder why he felt, or rather didn't feel, the way he did. What was it that was absent? Should he be afraid, in pain? And was he right to expect the worst in that moment?

This numbness didn't last long, as with the arrival of panic also came pain. The blood throbbing violently through his head convinced him that this was no fabrication of his imagination or a recurrent nightmare. While his mind regained coherency, his fingertips, of their own accord, scrabbled against something cold and damp. The same something pressed sharply into his exposed nose and cheek, and as more feeling returned, he noticed biting cold wind attacking his skin. Baker Street had never been this cold.

At last it occurred to him to try opening his eyes, but the obstinate lids refused to budge even slightly. John thought that didn't bode well.

Where his sight failed, his hearing did not. With the ear that wasn't pressed tightly against the ground, he tried to pick up nearby sounds. Nothing. But it wasn't an ordinary 'nothing'; it was a total absence of sound, as if someone had soundproofed his ears from the world. He was smothered in unnatural and disconcerting silence. And then –

A high-pitched whine abruptly reverberated into the depths of his eardrum, increasing in volume until its shrillness made him wince and grimace. John's chest began to constrict as if his ribcage was collapsing in on itself. His breath came in short pants, none providing the oxygen he required.

Complete agony followed. His throat seared with pain, and his body arched off of the ground in protest. Hands jumped to his ears and neck, eager to relieve the affliction but unable to. John couldn't even hear himself scream.

The cacophony ceased abruptly. John lay unmoving, inhaling shallowly, fearing that any movement might prompt its return. The eerie quietness had evaporated, testified by the sound of his own ragged breathing.

'Christ,' John wondered while he tried to gather his wits again. 'How I possibly have ended up like this?' Only one answer to that question presented itself, and it did so immediately – it could only have been through a case with detective.

His eyes forgot their former inactivity and shot open upon remembering the detective. Dark foggy surroundings greeted his vision. He had no memory of coming to this place, although that fact didn't truly surprise him. He dismissed that observation almost immediately; finding Sherlock was his main priority. If John was in this condition, he was terrified that Sherlock's might be graver.

That was unless, of course, Sherlock wasn't here with him.

Oh. John was torn between wanting and not wanting that to be the case. If Sherlock was off somewhere else then John's fear for his safety would be assuaged. But if he _was _nearby, that meant that John wasn't alone. Which would be convenient, considering that John couldn't even contemplate getting home in one piece without assistance. On the downside, Sherlock's presence could mean danger, for the both of them. He had to find Sherlock; he _had _to.

He attempted to move his arm and gather momentum to propel himself off the ground. A sharp pain shot through said limb once he placed weight on it, and he crumpled back to the ground, face colliding harshly with the hard pavement. He gave out an involuntary sharp cry.

"John?" called an anxious familiar voice from the surrounding darkness, seemingly in response to the sound he had made. 'How fortuitous,' John couldn't help but think through the pain.

John prayed that he had correctly identified the voice reaching out to him. He tried to call Sherlock's name, but his throat was too raw and dry to articulate anything. His eyes fluttered closed again, though he barely could tell the difference between the resulting darkness and the obscurity of the night and fog.

'No,' he thought, 'someone was looking for him, Sherlock was looking for him; he had to keep his eyes open!' He opened them again and heard the sounds of hurried footsteps coming towards him from the enveloping dark environs.

The footsteps stopped and John sensed that someone was kneeling next to him, an urgent hand placed on his back and another turning his cheek so that it was no longer facing the ground. He groaned at the sensation, part in relief for a reassuring touch, part in pain at being moved.

"John, look at me. Open your eyes!"

When had his eyes shut again? He battled to open them and was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock's concerned face swimming just above his own. He seemed extraordinarily close. John thought he might have felt Sherlock's breath on his cheek had he felt less numb. And he could have sworn that he heard Sherlock mutter 'thank god' under his breath, but John attributed that to his still hazy senses.

"I'm going to turn you over. This… This will probably hurt, brace yourself."

Sherlock turned him and John couldn't help groaning as his injured shoulder and arm scraped along the rough pavement. He tried to slur out Sherlock's name, but could only articulate a vague shushing sound. He missed Sherlock's pained expression.

However, he did notice when Sherlock's long fingers began to delicately poke at his skin, examining his body for injuries. John tried to let out a noise of mingled indignation and pain, although it was mostly the latter.

"I'm ascertaining the extent of your injuries. Your shoulder is dislocated. It normally wouldn't be this painful, but considering that it is the same shoulder wounded in Afghanistan, the additional strain and irritation is not exactly ideal. Your other injuries are minor, a few scratches, bruises and a raw throat. I have some water for that. I'm going to move you into a sitting position."

Sherlock's deceptively strong arms wrapped around John's shoulders and waist, raising his upper body. He was carefully propped up against something more vertical and solid. The arms then vanished and John felt something being pressed against his lips along with a command to drink. Water ran into his mouth and he swallowed greedily, relief starting to spread down his throat.

And then his shoulder snapped into place with a sickening noise. John choked and spluttered at the unexpected pain, his mouth spewing out the water that he had been enjoying up to that point.

"I had to reset it before the shock and numbness wore off. That would have made it considerably more painful," explained Sherlock in an apologetic tone, or at least, as close to apologetic as he could sound.

"Not while drinking," John rasped at last when he had found his voice, although the weak volume made him sound much less threatening than he had intended. John craned his neck to try and view the shoulder in question, prodding with his finger to see if it had set correctly. "I'll have to make a sling for that," he muttered.

Sherlock did not bother replying, putting his hand through a rip in John's shirt near the neck and rubbing soothing circles with his fingertips over the offended area. The touch was comforting now that John was beginning to feel the effects of the cold more. It should have felt odd, John's mind reminded him; something like this was almost intimate in nature. But he found that he didn't care; the touch felt good, and he wasn't about to stop Sherlock anytime soon.

Sherlock continued the motion for a few minutes until the pain had subsided and John's head was clearer. Sherlock gave him a look, which asked 'better?' to which John stiffly nodded in reply. Sherlock, who had maintained a crouched position beside John, now seated himself beside his blogger, staring thoughtfully out into the surrounding fog. This action prompted John's next question.

"How did we get here? And where is 'here'?"

"Westminster Bridge."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, acknowledging that Sherlock had to answer the latter, less important question first. He didn't push it, assuming that Sherlock had a good reason to ignore the more pressing issue. Instead he asked, "How do you know?"

"Because, unlike you, I did not sustain any injuries or lose consciousness."

"It's nothing to do with my head not being screwed on properly. It's dark, so how can you know for sure?" John asked with a pronounced scowl.

"I had to run some distance in my efforts to get to you, and I briefly took in my surroundings. Additional observation has confirmed my initial hypothesis. The width and other architectural features make our location quite distinctive even in the fog. Although," he paused, "it does look somewhat different now that I am able to observe it more closely."

"Different? It's Westminster Bridge, how could it be different?"

"It appears to be newer, and the paint is a slightly different shade, more carefully maintained."

John shook his head. "Look, I don't really care about the paint right now. Just tell me what happened. You do know, don't you?" John's voice began to grow in strength, questions bubbling to the surface of his mind. "How did we get here?"

But Sherlock paid him no heed, instead muttering under his breath and not noticing John's bewilderment giving away to severe annoyance, his head still too woozy to follow what the detective was saying in that fast voice of his.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed. The detective turned to look at him with surprise, like he hadn't expected to see John sitting beside him. John felt a slight pain as he identified Sherlock's expression; the one that indicated that he had overlooked John's very existence until he had been forced to remember. It was a pain that had become commonplace with the more time he spent with his flatmate, but still stung nonetheless. "I don't understand what's happening," John finished quietly, cursing the helpless that had bled into his voice.

Sherlock frowned. "I –"

He stopped speaking abruptly and cocked his head, as if he had heard something and was trying to listen for it again. In the next moment, Sherlock pressed the two of them back into the shadows and the fog, thoroughly invading John's personal space in the process. John was about to yelp in pain as his injured arm was jostled, when a gloved hand covered his mouth and the ensuing noise. "Apologies," Sherlock whispered in his ear, before turning his face away in the direction of the noise. John followed his gaze and saw two men walking past arm in arm, unaware of their presence.

As soon as they were out of earshot Sherlock removed his hand, but still stayed pressed up tight to John. John's body had become sore with tension, his muscles flexing wildly at being in such close proximity to the detective. To be touching and so close to a man who typically tried to avoid human contact was certainly not something he experienced everyday. John casually reminded himself that he needed oxygen, and exhaled a stuttering breath.

"We will remain here in case anyone else approaches," Sherlock murmured by way of explanation.

After taking a few moments to ease his quick beating heart John spoke. "Did you see what they were wearing?" he whispered. "It looked like something out of a costume drama, Andrew Davies kind of stuff." He saw a frown form on Sherlock's face, and misinterpreted it. "What, Mrs. Hudson made me watch Pride and Prejudice with her!" he said defensively.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't presume to care about what television you watch, either with or without Mrs. Hudson."

John scowled. "Then what's this about? Is this some kind of prank? It sure as hell isn't funny."

"That was not a costume. That was authentic clothing."

"They bought vintage suits?"

Sherlock growled in frustration. "_Authentic_, John. As in, not a costume and certainly not vintage. One can easily see from here that those clothes looked new. And no one wearing a costume or vintage would be able to wear that outfit with such ease without practice, the amount of practice that only comes with years of wear unless you are a man of my capabilities. Also, that degree of clothing detail is very rarely replicated so thoroughly or accurately."

John's patience was wearing thin as he was still not catching onto what Sherlock was talking about. "But what does that mean, how does that tell us what the bloody hell is going on?"

"We are on Westminster Bridge but it doesn't look the same. Men are walking around wearing suits reminiscent of the nineteenth century. Persistent heavy fog, almost like…" Sherlock paused to gather his thoughts, before he looked up at John quickly. "John. I suspect that _somehow_…"

Realization finally dawned on John. He inhaled sharply. "No. _No_. That is absolutely impossible, you know that better than I do!"

"It is the only explanation that makes sense!" Sherlock hissed out in frustration. "It is the only explanation of all the facts! This is nineteenth century London. _Somehow_, we are in nineteenth century London."

There was a brief pause while John surveyed the detective carefully. "I may have figured this out rather late Sherlock, because god knows that I've seen you come up with enough ridiculous deductions and behave erratically around the flat, but you are absolutely _insane_," he said slowly. "Thoroughly insane. Because there is no way, and I mean _no_ way, that we are in the nineteenth century. No fucking way."

* * *

"This is all a dream; I'll wake up in a minute and be back home in my bed. Everything will be normal again. Maybe if I pinch myself _really_ hard..."

A few minutes after his first outburst, John was pacing violently, muttering expletives under his breath. During his foul-mouthed monologue, John failed to notice that Sherlock slipped off and disappeared. John stopped abruptly mid rant, and looked around for the detective a few minutes later when his senses began returning to him.

"Sherlock?"

His words were greeted with silence. While John had briefly forgotten his tired and aching body during his frantic pacing, he was sharply reminded of it now and became aware of how alone he was.

"Where have you gone off to now? You can't tell me these things and then run off! Sherlock!"

John called for Sherlock a few more times and received no reply. Deciding that it would be foolish to go looking for Sherlock in the dense fog when John had no idea where he was and where to look, John sat back down against the wall, waiting for Sherlock to return.

He didn't have to wait long, although that small blessing did little to ease John's bad humour. After an insufferable ten-minute wait, Sherlock appeared once more beside him. There was one noticeable change however.

"What are you wearing?" John inquired in a hostile tone, as Sherlock thrust a bundle of clothes into his arms. Sherlock was dressed similarly to the two men who had passed them earlier. A shabby black suit hung off of his lean frame, with a cravat tightly adorning his neck and a hat on top of his messy curls. John couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's new attire accentuated his slim profile and long legs, despite it being somewhat loose fitting.

"I am wearing clothes. Honestly John, I thought that even you could surmise as much," Sherlock said, punctuating the verbal jab with his typical eye roll. "I slipped off while you vented to find appropriate garments, as I gathered that my attempts to reassure you would be unsuccessful. Now that you've calmed down, I shall explain."

John's scowl seemed to indicate that the ex-army doctor had by no means 'calmed down'.

"We can't go around in our normal clothes," continued Sherlock, "we would attract too much unwanted attention. Put those on, and then we can examine our surroundings." As Sherlock spoke, his fingers fidgeted at some stray threads emerging from the meagerly sewn buttons of his new jacket. He knotted the threads around his fingers and severed them with a quick tug. The brief action had John mesmerized, but he soon came back to himself and realized what Sherlock had said, and made a reply.

"No."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting this response. "No?"

"No. This is some kind of crazy joke. By wearing those clothes I'm accepting that this is all real. And I have by no means accepted that, and furthermore, I don't intend to do so."

"The sooner you start taking this in, the easier everything will be for both of us. We need to start acting; sitting around and denying our situation will not help us to untangle it. Think about it John, how would someone go about making such an elaborate hoax? And why? What is the point in making us think that we have traveled back in time?"

"Well, Anderson gets pissed at you often enough."

Sherlock scoffed. "Anderson does not have the intelligence to pull this off; you know that as well as I do. No, the only one clever enough to do this is Moriarty. And even his flamboyance wouldn't extend to attempting something like this; he would become bored with such a trick. So put on the clothes and then we can start exploring."

"Where did you even get these from?"

"Surely my interactions with Lestrade have shown you that it is no difficult feat to take items from unobservant people. And almost everyone is unobservant excepting myself."

"You stole them then?"

Sherlock smirked. "Semantics, John."

As John opened his mouth to protest once more, Sherlock cut him off with a hard expression, saying, "If you don't start putting them on now, I will undress you myself. I am confident that with your injured shoulder, I can easily overpower you. It's your decision."

John felt the heat rise to his face as Sherlock spoke, although he wasn't entirely sure why that was. Was it just the idea of Sherlock forcibly trying to strip him? Yes, John thought vehemently, that was purely the reason, and there was no need to try to pinpoint the emotion further. With that, he turned his back to Sherlock for some modicum of privacy and began to undress.

A few minutes later John had changed into the essentials, but only after swearing at the cold when he stripped down to his boxers. Maneuvering into his new shirt and jacket also proved difficult considering that he had used his own torn and dirty shirt as a makeshift sling for his shoulder underneath, but he managed.

With the jacket in place, John was almost ready. The fingers of his free hand still stumbled hopelessly over the cravat and he surveyed the material irately. He still couldn't picture how the fabric in his hand could be transformed into the elegant knots around Sherlock's neck. Indeed, he doubted that he could manage it even with the use of both hands.

After he struggled for another few seconds, Sherlock suddenly strode over to him. He swatted John's hands away and looped the material around his neck. Sherlock deftly tied and knotted it so quickly that John had to bite his tongue to prevent his typical exclamations of wonder that made Sherlock's smugness reach unbearable proportions, no matter how nonchalant the detective attempted to act.

"How do you even know how to do this? Or do I want to know?" John asked when Sherlock had finished.

Sherlock chuckled quietly. "I've certainly had occasions to practice, although they would probably fall under your 'I don't want to know' category that you have established. I'll have to teach you how to tie the material properly later. You'll need to become familiar with the art, and you certainly won't be able to pick it up without my instruction."

"Because we obviously don't have better things to be doing than learning how to tie cravats and inflating your ego, do we?" said John with a slight smile.

"Quite," said Sherlock, returning the half-grin.

John's face turned solemn all of a sudden as the implications of Sherlock's words struck, the implication from the need to learn how to dress properly in this time period. "Is this honestly happening right now? You really aren't joking are you?"

"No."

"How are we going to get home?" John tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but he couldn't hide it from Sherlock. Sherlock could always see right through him when he wanted to.

In a rare show of comfort, Sherlock hesitantly put his hand on John's uninjured shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. "I don't know. But if we arrived here despite all the impossibilities, there must be a way back, however improbable. That is all we can be certain of for now."

After his brief speech, Sherlock then turned and began to walk away from John, intent on not wasting any more time by fretting needlessly. Somewhat reluctantly, John started to follow Sherlock off of the bridge and into the nearby streets in complete silence. John was accustomed to keeping his mouth shut while Sherlock was deep in observation mode, which Sherlock had clearly entered into. But that was not the sole reason for his reticence on this occasion. John just didn't know what to say. He was in a permanent state of bewilderment, unable to fully take anything in. While part of his brain screamed at him that the whole thing was impossible, another part was telling him that Sherlock was right. And since when had Sherlock ever been wrong on something as big and important as this?

Another part of John's mind also couldn't help but feel unbelievably self-conscious, acutely aware of his uncomfortable new attire. It was a small concern in the general scheme of things, but it persisted anyway. He saw other strangers walking past seemingly completely at ease. They were obliviously secure in the world in which John found himself. The ability to carry themselves purposefully and confidently was easy to see in them. John envied them. He had never felt so conspicuous and out of place, even in Afghanistan.

Unlike Sherlock who strode on quickly and gracefully, John slowed his pace to accustom himself to his surroundings and his guise. He kept a close eye on Sherlock so that he didn't lose track of him in the fog, but he made no effort to remain strictly by his side at all times. They both needed some time to themselves after all. They walked on like this for a few minutes, before John knocked straight into Sherlock's side, who had stopped unexpectedly, which John had failed to notice. Sherlock's hand shot out to steady him, before gently turning John to face one of the buildings.

John gasped for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. "It's still here!" he breathed.

"I recall Mrs. Hudson once saying that there used to be plenty of vacancies here even when the building was originally built. Perhaps we should enquire as to whether they have any lodgings available," said Sherlock with an amused smirk.

With that he strode to the front door and put a pale hand on the large brass knocker. Above it, emblazoned in gold characters, was an eerily familiar sequence.

221B

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**Coming up in chapter 2:**_ Sherlock secures lodgings; John struggles to adjust and has some uncomfortable thoughts; they experience flashforwards to the present day, although they are incomplete at best; John takes a look at a contemporary paper; Sherlock discovers something astronomically big to keep him busy._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: You guys. Seriously, I've never had this many reviews and alerts for one chapter. Thank you, I adore you, please keep them coming, and enjoy. Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated!**

**Thanks to Rairakku again for helping me with this chapter, you stop me from getting severely annoyed with my own editing abilities. :)**

**Warnings: Mild swearing, italics used to denote flashbacks**

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**Chapter 2**

A little under half an hour later John was upstairs in Baker Street, squirming while Sherlock charmed his way into the heart of the middle-aged landlady. Once the door opened and he had stated their business, she looked Sherlock over with appraising eyes. She proceeded to immediately invite them up for tea and to haggle with Sherlock over the rent. John felt something between awkwardness and jealousy while he watched her dote on his best friend. The feeling was only appeased by the fact that Sherlock's affableness and her star struck gaze wouldn't last long given Sherlock's track record of rudeness. Imagining the inevitable incident that would lead to the landlady no longer viewing Sherlock with kind eyes made John smile slightly through his present annoyance.

In that moment however, Sherlock's transformed personality was a decided advantage; it was what secured them a reduced rent on the two currently available rooms, along with Sherlock's attractive face and somewhat flirtatious manner, John grudgingly admitted. Conveniently, and eerily, the two vacant rooms were the precise rooms that Sherlock and John occupied in modern day Baker Street. This familiarity would have pleased John if it weren't for the fact that a vast proportion of the building he had seen so far was almost unrecognizable. If the alien décor and furnishings of the living room were anything to go by, his old bedroom would probably look entirely different once he finally got to see it.

While he took in his surroundings, John could not fail to be impressed by Sherlock's continued acting. John had seen him act before, but to see Sherlock slip so easily into another version of himself always struck John as incredible. Staying silent to observe the transformation was simple for John, although his silence in this instance could also be attributed to his fear of speaking in a manner that did not correspond to the time period. He secretly wished that he had paid more attention when watching those period dramas with Mrs. Hudson. Maybe then he would have had a better grasp of how to speak and conduct himself.

His struggle to comprehend everything came to a head a few minutes later when Sherlock addressed him nonchalantly as 'Watson'. John would have stammered in an undignified manner had he not swallowed a mouthful of tea at that precise moment. The unexpectedness of the name hit him full force, resulting in said tea going down the wrong way. John was left with a coughing fit and red tinged cheeks, a situation for which he couldn't think of a quick explanation. The landlady looked at him uneasily during his episode, already having viewed him with barely concealed disdain on seeing the dirty sling underneath his jacket. John must have looked a strange sight next to the dapper Sherlock. His odd behaviour seemed to confirm her view that Holmes' friend was suspicious. She started addressing herself exclusively to Sherlock from that point on.

John couldn't help that the name had produced such a profound effect on him however. He had to admit that his heart had drooped a bit on hearing it, sounding far too formal for the close relationship that he and Sherlock normally shared. Wasn't Sherlock the one who had insisted that John call him by his first name after only knowing him a day? After all this time, 'Watson' sounded so foreign. There was no intimacy, nothing personal in it.

John shook himself suddenly. What was he thinking? 'Intimacy' and 'personal' were hardly words that he associated with Sherlock anyway, much less reasons to feel disappointed over something that made no sense to him! John needed to stop running off on these trains of thought. They were inappropriate and unhelpful, and most of all, foolish. He didn't understand where these sentiments came from and what they meant, nor did he want to know. Ignoring them was by far the easiest option, and the most sensible one. They would pass with time.

John's musings were interrupted when he saw Sherlock remove money from his jacket pocket, the landlady having finally gotten around to asking for a down payment on the rent. He raised an eyebrow, wishing that he didn't know exactly how Sherlock had acquired the money. His former indignation at such petty theft had relaxed into indifference once he realized that Sherlock wouldn't stop, even when John berated him for it afterwards. As if the detective could read his thoughts, he shot a subtle smirk in John's direction when he handed the money over. Smug bastard, John thought, while still feeling the urge to giggle happily at the man's antics. Sherlock was just being so typically… Sherlock.

The landlady finally took her leave, mentioning something about running some errands. The two men were alone again at last. Sherlock rose from his seat and moved over to the window, peaking out at the streets below. John took the opportunity to loosen his cravat, which had been threatening to cut off the blood supply to his neck ever since Sherlock had first fastened it around him. That finished, John found himself at a loss for something to do, a state that was occurring with disturbing frequency he noted.

He huffed in his chair, cursing his helplessness. Looking over at Sherlock, John envied the other man for his calmness. Sherlock could be thrown into a whole new world and barely bat an eyelid. If the experience had rattled the detective at all, he was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. Even back on Westminster Bridge he had sounded more excited than anything else. This observation also served to remind John that he hadn't had the chance to ask all of his questions back then. He cleared his throat, prompting Sherlock to turn slightly to listen to him.

"Do you remember anything?" John asked. "About what happened before we got here, I mean? Something must have triggered all of this."

Sherlock shook his head. "Despite my normally excellent memory, I have no recollection of what happened. Without that information I cannot hope to discover what triggered our presence here. Do you remember anything? Every detail is vital, even if it is only something fragmentary."

John closed his eyes, trying his best to remember and visualize anything that instinctively sprung to mind. Sherlock had taught him this technique a few months ago after John had asked Sherlock one too many times where he had left his keys or phone. Taught was a generous word for it in fact, as it was rather forced upon him. John sighed and tried to clear his thoughts of that particular incident, focusing his thoughts on what he needed now. "I… I remember that Mycroft came to visit. I talked to you after he left, I must've been out when he arrived. I can remember that quite vividly."

"I have no memory of that either. Describe our conversation to me. It might stimulate my brain into action."

"_Sherlock? Are you here?" a bedraggled John called out as he stumbled into the kitchen. There was no reply. John peaked into the living room and saw Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, eyes closed and fingers drumming on his pajama-clad thighs._

"_Mycroft's gone then?"_

_Sherlock snorted. "Obviously. Too afraid to stay to witness the two of us meeting? Even if it means a soaking in the typical London weather because you are incapable of remembering to bring an umbrella when you go out?" he replied._

"_What do you mean?" John spluttered._

_Sherlock opened his eyes and a lean hand stretched out to grab John's laptop from the coffee table. "You 'conveniently' left before Mycroft arrived and took approximately twenty minutes longer to buy the shopping than usual; you can make the trip in half an hour, but today it took fifty minutes. Looking at the size of your bag, you did not buy more than usual, so why the extra time? Furthermore, you did not take an umbrella, despite it being clearly overcast when you left the flat. You dislike lingering in the rain, yet your appearance tells me that you have been thoroughly drenched. It is easy to conclude that you left hurriedly when I mentioned Mycroft, forgetting your umbrella in your haste, and then proceeded to dawdle on the journey home."_

_John looked at him open mouthed. "You seriously know how long it takes me on average to get the shopping?"_

_Sherlock snorted. "Of all my deductions, that is what you take issue with? Fine, yes. I have not deleted the information because occasionally when you buy me materials for my experiments it helps to know when to expect their arrival." He paused slightly before adding, "In any case, I thought you said Mycroft wasn't intimidating, or were you trying to display some kind of misplaced masculinity in order to impress me?"_

_John laughed as he turned into the kitchen to start putting the groceries away. "He isn't intimidating. I thought you knew me better than to accuse me of 'misplaced masculinity'. Besides, it's not like I'd be using my male charms on you. Any of my attempts to impress you usually fall terribly flat," he teased, although internally recognizing that his last sentence was painfully true. "I thought that you two could do with some alone time," John continued quickly. "I'm sick of always being the mediator. It wouldn't kill you to have a civil conversation without me being there. Christ, I'm surprised now that I could ever forget an umbrella again considering what you did to his the last time he was over."_

_He sat himself opposite Sherlock, who had replaced the laptop and was now staring into space_, _although the slight curl pulling at his lips indicated that he had been listening to John's musings. Seeing Sherlock appreciate his joke made John break out into laughter of his own._

"_Any breakthroughs on the case?" John asked after his giggles had subsided._

_Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing of note. I had wondered if Mycroft might be of some help for once, but apparently not. No true surprises there. Working alone is for the best." He hesitated. "Working with _my blogger_ is for the best."_

_John smiled at the rare compliment from his friend, basking in the warmth it brought._

John opened his eyes back in 1888 as he concluded his description of the last remembered moments in the flat, although leaving out his reaction to the compliment. Sherlock didn't need to know that. He looked up, anxious to see if Sherlock had followed his memories and had remembered anything himself.

Sherlock nodded contemplatively. "Your account seems to be stimulating my memory effectively; I can remember that conversation happening now that you have related it. But I still can't recall why Mycroft felt compelled to visit that day, nor any of our conversation. It was probably more of his usual banal requests, although at this point it would do more harm than good to rule anything out."

John frowned slightly and opened his eyes, rubbing his temples vigorously in the vain attempt to remember more. "I… I have this _feeling_ that something else happened after that. Something big. I mean, it seems obvious that something must have happened, but it isn't just logic telling me that, it's like my head is giving me hints. But the more I try to think about it, the harder it is to remember. I just instinctively know that something happened. And… And it ended badly."

"I am experiencing something similar," said Sherlock. "Instincts are very misleading however. The 'gut instinct' that Lestrade relies on is why he will never be as good a detective as I am, among other reasons. In this instance my instincts are telling me not to dwell on this, but naturally I need to remember in order to understand how we got here. It would seem that instincts are, once again, of little merit. Best not to trust them John, we will both do well to remember that while we're here."

John did not entirely agree but chose not to reply; there was no point in starting an argument on something that neither of them would compromise on. They had too much on their plates now without something dividing them. Besides, he knew that Sherlock had never experienced that need to rely on instinct like John had in Afghanistan. Instead, John picked up a newspaper lying on the table nearest to him and changed the topic to more practical, immediate matters.

"So what do you suggest we do now that we're here?"

Sherlock gracefully moved from where he had been leaning against the windowsill and sat opposite John. John noted with interest that like their own home, the two chairs were angled toward each other. It was as if one chair was the focal point of the other, something that John thought was not unlike their own lives. How often had his life revolved around Sherlock's? Although, he thought disheartened, the same could hardly be said of Sherlock. Sherlock's life revolved around his work and nothing else. That was an effectively mangled metaphor.

Sherlock's shoulders hunched up slightly, seemingly trying to shrug as he positioned himself on the plush seat. "Are there any cases of note?" he asked, nodding towards the paper in John's hands.

"You have got to be joking!" exclaimed John, resisting the urge to throw the damn newspaper at Sherlock's head. "We've barely arrived here! We have far greater priorities than that!"

The detective looked calmly back at him in his most infuriating manner. "It's what I do for a living, John. I can't let my brain rot while we remain here. Additionally, I'm sure that you want us to acquire a legal source of income to survive on in this time period, rather than have me continue to pickpocket unfortunates that cross my path. Unless you have any knowledge on the subject of time travel and how else to solve our little problem?"

John snorted. "The only thing I know about time travel is from watching Doctor Who."

"Then I would suggest that reading the newspaper would be more productive than discussing your Doctor Who obsession."

John rolled his eyes and muttered, "It's not an obsession. And FYI, the show is widely regarded to have some of the best writers in the world." But he found himself obeying Sherlock anyway during his quietly uttered rant. He ignored the eye roll that inevitably came from Sherlock after they disagreed over something involving popular culture.

He was momentarily thrown off guard by the front cover of the newspaper as his eye caught the date printed on the top right corner in small print. His hand instinctively went out and brushed over it, as if touching it could make it change. But the print stared back at him the same as ever, cheerfully reading '1 September 1888'. He shook his head. This kind of information still startled him. Although in fairness, he had only been thrown into this new world a few hours ago. Had it only been that long? It felt more like days rather than hours, and he was already sick of it.

His eyes then trailed down to the main headlines of that day and found an engrossing article straight away.

"This sounds up your street," he said aloud after he had read the main story. "A woman was murdered in the Whitechapel area early yesterday morning. It sounds like it was pretty grisly too, by our standards, poor girl. They're saying that she had her throat slashed, and her abdomen was all cut up. It sounds like she probably died by having her jugular severed. No suspects as of yet, but they're already harping on about police inadequacy. Good to know that some things don't change, eh?"

Sherlock had frozen in the chair opposite him as soon as he had mentioned the possible causes of death. John failed to notice this at first, too engrossed in what he was reading and taking in the new language and manner of writing. "What was her name?"

"Uh, Mary Ann Nichols. Though her friends called her -"

"Polly," finished Sherlock triumphantly. "Polly Nichols! Of course, how could I have forgotten!"

"How did you know that? Is she famous? I've definitely never heard of her," John questioned in a perplexed tone.

Sherlock was barely heeding a word he said. "Oh you really have no idea, do you? This is _huge_, this is immense! He has just started, John! I examined this case years ago when I was starting out my career but it didn't take me long to realize that there was never enough evidence for modern detectives to come to a satisfactory conclusion. And now we're here, practically on his doorstep with the ability to do it! With my intelligence, we could actually find him!"

"Find who?" John asked, feeling even more confused and slightly worried by how quickly the frenzied excitement had taken over his best friend.

"The Whitechapel Murderer. Or more commonly known to the modern public as Jack the Ripper. Although I vehemently disagree with that name due to its origin in a fake letter undoubtedly written by a journalist to sell more papers. It is a most misleading nickname. While 'The Whitechapel Murderer' is also a problematic name, it is certainly the less objectionable of the two."

A shiver ran down John's spine, consisting of excitement but also a tinge of fear. "Hang on, you mean to say that he's in London? Right now?"

"Precisely. This case is about to begin in earnest. There is much dispute as to which victims can be claimed as his; with such a time lag one can hardly tell whether it was the same man, or just violent unconnected murders. But Mary Ann Nichols is widely considered to be his first main victim, one of the canonical five."

"Canonical five?"

"The five victims who are attributed to him. But that isn't what you should be focusing on! We shall be here to see the entire case unfold! This is a most extraordinary opportunity. Some good will come out of ventures in the past after all, it would seem," Sherlock finished, his eyes gleaming.

"Look, I get that you're excited but calm down for a second. Don't you think that it's a bit too dangerous? I know we've chased serial killer cabbies before but that was in the twenty-first century. You know, when we actually knew where we were and what we were doing most of the time. Plus, we had proper technology and medicine to deal with the consequences of running after these people. We don't have that security to fall back on anymore. This place is far more lawless, god knows what could happen if we pursue this!"

Sherlock merely waved away John's concerns with his hand. "Don't be dull and predictable. The world's greatest mind can now tackle England's greatest unsolved mystery. Isn't it the perfect match? I would have thought that you would be excited by this prospect."

"But surely there's something about changing history that's dangerous and to be avoided at all costs?" John said in a further desperate attempt to dissuade Sherlock.

"I repeat; you watch far too much Doctor Who. The laws of time travel are far more complex than trite television programmes have led you to believe."

"Oh, and you're an expert on the 'laws of time' are you?" asked John triumphantly, curling his fingers into air quotations while he spoke. "Can you prove that I'm wrong? That the world won't implode or something if you change history by catching him?"

Sherlock frowned. "Technically, no. The little knowledge I do have however tells me that the world won't 'implode'. You may reserve the right to tell me that I was wrong if it comes to that however."

With a sigh, John passed his hand over his eyes and rubbed at his temples again, trying to release the stress that typically accompanied such arguments with the consulting detective. After a minute of regrouping his emotions, John looked at him uncomfortably. "I just… Have a bad feeling about this, if you'll forgive the cliché. I don't want you to be hurt in the process of chasing after some murderous lunatic who has no qualms about sticking a knife in you. I don't want _either_ of us to be hurt," he amended quickly.

"The Whitechapel Murderer traditionally only went after female prostitutes. I think I have no reason to fear."

"You said yourself that it's almost impossible to determine which victims are actually his," John pointed out swiftly, even impressing himself with the comeback. "Who knows who he really killed? And I've been with you long enough to know that these nutters will kill anyone who threatens them, regardless of gender or their typical type."

"While your concern is touching," replied Sherlock dryly, "I repeat, I think we have no real cause to fear. Where has your exhilaration for the unknown and dangerous gone to?"

John stood, feeling exasperated with the replies he was receiving. His forced calmness from only a few minutes ago had already evaporated. "Well sorry for caring about whether you get murdered down some London alley," he replied testily, his pent up frustrations threatening to bubble to the surface. "I need to make myself some tea," he muttered agitatedly, hoping that it would provide a distraction and a comfort. Tea was surely something that would always be familiar to him. This illusion was shattered by Sherlock's next words.

"You don't make it yourself. You must ring for it."

John threw himself back into the chair again. "I hate this! Why can't I make my own bloody tea! The tea I make is perfectly fine! This makes no sense, everything is fucking backward. And what the hell can I do now? You can get your reputation here as a consulting detective and go off gallivanting after Jack the Ripper and whoever else, and I don't care if he's actually called _the Whitechapel Murderer_," he added vehemently when it looked like Sherlock was going to interject, "I don't give a flying fuck what he's called. It doesn't change the fact that you can run off to catch him whereas I can't even prove that I'm a qualified doctor! I can't _do_ anything. It's damn infuriating!"

Silence ensued and John avoided Sherlock's penetrating gaze in the aftermath of his explosion. John wasn't used to swearing so much in one sitting, quite literally. He suspected that Sherlock wasn't used to it either, although he probably expected it to happen sooner or later what with the extreme culture shock from their situation. John looked intently down at his hand, wondering why he couldn't just keep himself quiet and stop spewing out these insecurities and aggravations out loud, especially when Sherlock couldn't really do anything about them. Sherlock could hardly help that John was useless a lot of the time in these circumstances.

With a sigh, John heard Sherlock move over to him and bend to his eye level. In the next moment, he tilted John's head in his direction with deft fingers so that they were making eye contact once more. Cool blue grey met warm hazel, and John suppressed a gasp at the sensation of Sherlock's fingers delicately touching his jaw for a few brief seconds before dropping away. The close proximity was spellbinding.

"Do _not_ say that you cannot do anything while you are in my presence. It is a falsehood of the most severe kind. You will assist me on this case and then we shall decide how to progress after that."

Sherlock finally seemed to realize how close they were, almost as if he had acted and moved to John without thought. But that wasn't possible, because he _always_ thought before he acted. After he could see that John wasn't going to disagree with what he said, he moved quickly back to his chair before picking up where he left off. "So my dear Watson," Sherlock continued with a teasing smirk, stressing the surname, "what do you say to heading down to Scotland Yard tomorrow morning to show them how things are done when one is a competent detective?"

"Just competent?"

"Fine, excellent."

John allowed his familiar warm grin to appear once more. "You never change do you?" he chuckled. "You will always be Sherlock Holmes, out to prove the police wrong at every available opportunity."

Sherlock shot him an almost feral grin. "Always." He stood abruptly after looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, which now read eight o'clock. "Unless you want something to eat, I suggest that you go to bed early. It's been a long day and we will need our wits about us tomorrow."

John felt a little thrill of happiness to hear Sherlock say 'we', to know that he was included and _necessary_. John yawned and nodded, extricating himself from the now comfortably warm chair. He began to walk towards the stairs that led to his room.

"Oh, and John?" Sherlock called to him just before he left the room. John turned with a questioning look.

"Please keep in mind that it's the Whitechapel Murderer from now on. I wouldn't like you to get in the habit of calling our killer by the wrong name." That damn smirk had returned.

Smug bastard, John thought again. Resisting the urge to send a rude hand gesture Sherlock's way while simultaneously fighting down a grin, John left the room and wearily made his way to his room and long sought after sleep.

* * *

**Coming up in chapter 3:**_ John has trouble sleeping, the boys are introduced to Scotland Yard and some of its current inspectors, Polly Nichols' inquest is of interest, and possible connections to victims are brought forward._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Forgive me, it's been longer than two weeks. However, if it's any consolation, I was actually doing exams so it was a productive absence, and I'm pretty sure I passed all three. Huzzah!**

**Anyways, the note I promised last time: This is a Ripper fic so it's disclaimer time - this will not be historically accurate at all times. If you are a dedicated Ripperologist (and the inaccuracies end up annoying you) I am truly sorry. And it's funny because I do actually study history. But the fact is that I simply do not have time to put in the research required to get all the details right (and believe me, in history you have to do a LOT of research in order to prove that you've got everything down correctly). I will attempt to get some basic deets down - victims' names and dates etc, but certain other things will inevitably just be wrong because I am not a Ripperologist myself. So why did I choose the Ripper case? Because it thoroughly suited my needs for my storyline, and as Sherlock said, isn't it intriguing to see the greatest mind meet the greatest unsolved case?**

**So at times these inaccuracies will be purely accidental what with me just not knowing stuff. Some other inaccuracies will actually be intentional however, as they will have an impact on the course of the story. (Trust me on that. Every detail is important.) Just wanted you folks to know this before you read further. If this puts you off the story then that's fine, it's your opinion which you are more than entitled to, and thanks for sticking around this long. For those of you who want to read on - Enjoy!**

**And thank you to the lovely Rairakku for critiquing this for me again!**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_Life faded to grey, grey like pavements and cobblestones and buildings. __Everything was tinged with it, the vacuous__ world giving up its colour without such much as a passive complaint. John didn't notice when the change occurred –one second all had been normal, and then he blinked and missed when it had swapped over and the world became less vibrant.__Funny how things like that happen so quickly, like time doesn't care about how important something is. All that matters is that the world keeps turning, regardless of whether it appears to stop for anything or anyone in it. Nothing is personal, nothing is sacred, and above all, nothing waits. __  
_

_In the same way as colour, feeling had suddenly been replaced by numbness, a claustrophobic and suffocating numbness that made him want to scream. John hadn't noticed it take over his body, but it must have done so. He fell forward and couldn't tell if someone had caught before he hit the ground. Maybe there was no one there at all to catch him. Black spots mocked his eyes, reminding him that he was so utterly out of control, that his body was not his to command in this moment. He thought he could hear a distant voice, maybe even someone holding him tightly, but he couldn't distinguish words or whether someone was touching him or not. He couldn't be sure of anything. He let out a breath and shut his eyes with no intention of opening them again –_

John awoke with a gasp and sat bolt upright in bed, breathing in deeply, much like when he had lived alone in that godforsaken flat in London before he met Sherlock. John's hand moved instinctively to his shoulder to massage the tense, stiff skin, which had begun to ache. Once his breathing had become more controlled, he had more liberty to wonder what had prompted such a dream, for a dream it most certainly had been. He hadn't had a nightmare about Afghanistan since a few weeks after moving into Baker Street (the _real_ Baker Street, not this sickly replica). Perhaps, John thought, perhaps his current situation was bringing back the traumatic memories. For Sherlock's sake and his own he hoped that he was wrong in his supposition. It was going to be difficult enough to adapt and live in their current circumstances without John's past coming back to haunt him. Or technically, his future.

John lay back down but soon found that he couldn't get back to sleep again. He uncomfortably rearranged his position for what felt like several hours until the pale sunlight crept through the window in his room, and he realized that he wouldn't be getting any more rest today. He got up and padded over to the window, noticing that some of the fog had dissipated. Some early risers were pacing the streets below and he tried to fathom how their lives could be so distinct from his own, and yet so normal for them. Their dress, manner of speech and dress, their values and living standards were so far removed that he was used to. Afghanistan had taught him to live by adapting to circumstances, but this wasn't Afghanistan. Maybe he could draw some parallels, but he had a lot to learn about the 1880s and little in the way of preparation.

After being lost in his thoughts for a while, he heard a loud tapping at his door.

"Yes?"

Sherlock entered almost before he had actually answered, dressed for the day and his flushed cheeks indicating that he had already been outside among the people John had been watching.

"Someone's up early," commented John with a raised eyebrow.

"I have already been out walking. I would normally be surprised at your lack of dress but I see that you didn't sleep well. Bad night?"

John shrugged. "Getting used to a new bed and all that I guess."

"No," said Sherlock sharply, "you had a nightmare. You have evidently been up for a while but you still appear tired. Your drowsiness yesterday should have allowed you to have a full night of uninterrupted sleep, and yet you did not receive it. The only thing that could have disrupted your sleep that would not have also disrupted mine would be a nightmare."

John threw up his hands in resignation. "Okay, fine! Yes, I had a nightmare and it kept me up. It's not a big deal, I'm sure it's just a once off kind of thing."

"I believe that it is troubling you more than you care to let on. And it is no small matter as you haven't had a nightmare about Afghanistan in over a year." John schooled his features into a nonchalant mask so that Sherlock wouldn't pick up on the fact that John was beginning to suspect that the nightmare hadn't been about Afghanistan at all. He succeeded for once, as Sherlock continued, "However, we shall discuss this later after our day's work is complete and once you feel more loquacious. We need to head to the police station that is conducting the inquiry into Mary Ann Nichols' death."

"What, right now?"

"There is no time like the present," replied Sherlock as he swept from the room in dramatic fashion. John scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion. Since when did Sherlock speak in idioms?

John dressed himself, aware that the clothes were slightly less stiff after having their first outing yesterday. He hoped that he wouldn't have cause to loosen them much further; the less he had to wear them the better. It was hard enough to maneuver into them with his newly set shoulder, let alone in normal circumstances. He longed to switch back to his comfortable jumpers and cardigans. He thought of the jumper he was wearing yesterday when he was on the bridge, which he could no longer wear in this world without attracting the wrong sort of attention. What an odd place to be.

With his cravat in hand he went to meet Sherlock in the downstairs sitting room. He held up the cravat sheepishly and Sherlock tutted as he went over to tie it for him again. "I shall have to teach you this later on also. We shall do it in the evening. Now, let's go."

'Let's go' apparently really meant that they should rush down the stairs and clamber into the nearest hansom cab with little thought for personal safety. And this was something else, John thought. The one thing that he found himself really missing, really wishing that he had valued when he had the chance? Taxi cabs. Because at this moment in time he was pretty convinced that hansom cabs were going to be the death of him, regardless of the amount of criminals wandering the streets of London at any given time. John fervently wished that he were in a taxi, or even walking the streets and braving the multitude of criminals. Because the smell, the jolting, the exposure, were all far worse than any cab ride he'd ever experienced. Even that time when John had that insanely dreadful hangover and Sherlock had manhandled him out to that place in the south end for a case, and the homophobic cabbie shouted abuse at them when Sherlock anxiously started checking to see if John had a 'temperature' and he thought they were a couple. Even _that _couldn't compare.

And off they went in a hansom cab, the experience of which was enough to make John travel sick for literally the first time in his life. Sherlock seemed almost giddy from the opportunity to gain facts first hand as opposed to gleaming them from dodgy articles written in sensational modern day journals and books. John might have understood if he had gotten more sleep the night before. Actually that was a lie. He would _never_ understand Sherlock's crime related giddiness. Sleep just helped him to appreciate it a bit more.

After what felt like a never-ending bone shattering journey, they arrived at their destination in the Whitechapel district, for which John would be eternally grateful. They alighted from the hansom together and onto the dirty street below. John looked up after carefully placing his feet on the pavement, noticing a rather squalid building in front of them. He groaned when he saw Sherlock speeding up the steps leading into the building, realizing that it must be the police station. It certainly was a change from the spotless and professional Scotland Yard that John had become used to seeing when he called in on DI Lestrade.

The lobby area did nothing to do away with the impression that the external part of the building had made on him, perhaps even increasing John's incredulity that this was indeed a police station. In one corner of the room was a duty police officer, reclining against his desk, not even looking up at them as he smoked and surveyed his paper. Sherlock, never one to be discouraged, strode over.

"I want to speak to the inspectors working on the Nichol's murder,' he demanded.

The policeman eyed him incredulously. "A lot of people want to know about that murder. Only relatives get to know what's goin' on here,' he said, giving Sherlock a glare and continuing when it looked like Sherlock was about to interrupt, 'And don't even think about lying to me and sayin' you're a relative."

"No, not a relative," Sherlock said almost bashfully as if he had been caught out doing something wrong, evidently trying to utilize his acting skills, "I am a journalist."

The officer laughed. It was a hollow sound. "We've had a lot of 'em poking around here, so we have. And I'm telling you now, there's nothing that we can reveal to you lot before the inquest. You journalist types really are all the same, aren't you? Thinking you have a right to 'alert the public' and such nonsense, but all you really wanna do is sell papers. Be off with you, I ain't got anything to tell you."

Sherlock glowered at the man, his patience clearly growing thin. "Officer, I know a lot about this case already, including the fact that the Metropolitan Police are beginning to suspect that a serial killer may be responsible. Would you like me to write an article in tonight's paper relating that little fact? Or would you prefer me to report on the much more bland aspects of the case and prevent panic from breaking out across greater London? The choice is yours."

The officer had paled considerably. "Are you attempting to threaten or blackmail the police?" he said tremulously, "because if you are –"

"You'll what? I have the freedom of speech to report what I choose. I'm not threatening you, I am merely telling you what I know of the case and what I plan to report unless I can find alternative information."

"That is pretty much blackmail Sher-" John's hissed correction was broken off with a small cry of pain as Sherlock's foot connected with his shin rather painfully.

"How did you know that we suspect a serial killer?"

"I have my ways," Sherlock smirked. "It wasn't all too hard to find out. Now please tell your superior officers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and my colleague John Watson wish to speak to them."

The officer stood quickly, perhaps in an attempt to feel less intimidated by Sherlock's imposing stance and manner. "Well you can't speak to them just now. They've just left for the coroner's inquest about ten minutes ago."

Sherlock frowned. "Of course, the inquest is today. In that case, I shall return here tomorrow. I expect my needs to be accommodated promptly when I return. I shall go and introduce myself to the inspectors after the inquest. And I suppose if the inquest is open to the public then that shall also prove beneficial."

The policeman was still regarding them with suspicion and had written down their names on the side of his newspaper, something John did not fail to notice. Perhaps all this time with Sherlock had caused him to become more observant after all. "Right, I'll send a messenger boy on to tell them to expect you then."

Sherlock nodded once before turning and motioning to John to follow him outside. Once they were out of earshot, he said to John, "We must head to the coroner's inquest now. We can walk, it's on Whitechapel Road."

John looked at him with a frown. "How do you know that? You didn't ask the policeman in there," gesturing back to the lobby with his hand, "where it was."

Sherlock tsked, berating John for his lack of foresight. "I did study this case in my youth, John. Such details are hardly ones that I would forget."

"But you didn't remember that the inquest was today. And if you've studied most of the facts already why do you want to speak to all of these people in the first place?"

"I didn't forget that the inquest was today, I was merely trying to make an impression on the policeman so that he would prepare everything promptly for tomorrow. And I wish to peruse all these facts again because as of now they are fresh. Things become lost and misconstrued when they're written down and left to stew over time. The only way to get accurate data, particularly pertaining to this case, is to actively search for it myself."

John made no reply to this statement, deciding that he would allow Sherlock to win this particular round of verbal sparring. John didn't always let him win, sometimes he was too angry with the other man to let things go. But he supposed that this occasion was fairly innocuous and not worth the bother of starting a row over it. John smiled slightly, briefly recollecting some of their arguments that had verged on playful over the last few months while they walked the rest of the way to the inquest in silence.

* * *

After seating themselves surreptitiously at the back of the room where the inquest was being held, John soon came to the conclusion that the coroner, Wynne Edwin Baxter, was a blunt man. The examinations having already been conducted, the coroner delivered his findings without ceremony and indignation. He described the body even more coolly than Molly Hooper would, with a poise that really only came with arrogance. But for the time period, Baxter's explanations seemed to demonstrate him to be a relatively competent coroner, which likely accounted for his arrogance. Despite this John found himself unable to follow everything that the coroner said, because he was uncharacteristically distracted by the man's astounding beard.

John did remember listening attentively when the injuries on the body were related in minute detail however. There had been bruising to the face and jaw, with the cause of death being two long and deep slashes extending across the throat from left to right, severing the arteries, as John had guessed from the newspaper article. From the length and depth of the cuts the weapon was estimated to be a long-bladed knife. Her abdomen had also been mutilated in a similar manner post-mortem. There were jagged deep cuts also going from left to right, ripping through the skin as if it were as frail as a piece of paper. It had been a most vicious attack, though John supposed that the woman was lucky that she would have died before the mutilation had occurred. He shuddered when he thought of the slashes to her neck, his own fingers instinctively tracing over his own neck and feeling the major artery pulsing underneath his skin.

Caught up in his own gruesome thoughts, John didn't really pay much attention to the rest of the inquest. He was startled when Sherlock shook his arm to get his attention and John realized when he looked up that the inquest was finally over and the crowd was beginning to disperse.

"Come. We need to speak to inspectors Helson and Spratling before they leave."

John smiled to himself, realizing that Sherlock had even remembered the names of two almost insignificant inspectors in his earlier analysis of this case. Small things like this made John think of Sherlock fondly, wondering how on earth someone could have such a capacity for remember details.

"Inspectors, I am Sherlock Holmes of the The Times and this is my associate Mr. Watson. I'm sure that the officer at your police station has already informed you of our arrival here and our intentions."

The taller inspector nodded but his eyes narrowed in suspicion at the two. "That he did," he said as he shook hands with them. "I'm Inspector Helson. I can't say that I'm all too happy about your interference either but our hands are tied. Rest assured that if you continue to butt in with your somehow acquired inside information, we will not take kindly to it. I wouldn't put up you right now if we did have everything else to deal with too. Come back to the station tomorrow and we'll talk then."

"Just one moment," said Sherlock quickly before they had a chance to turn away. "I wish to ask you one thing before we meet again tomorrow. I know that there are two previous inquiries that you think might have some connection to the present case. What can you tell me of them?"

"You most certainly have done your homework, Mr… uh, what did you say your name was again?" asked the other inspector, Spratling. Continuing on after Sherlock had impatiently repeated his name, he said, "Those women you're referring to would be Annie Millwood and Ada Wilson. Ms. Millwood died back in February from stab wounds to the legs and abdomen. Ms. Wilson was attacked back in March."

"And what was her cause of death?" asked Sherlock eagerly.

"There wasn't one," replied Helson. "She's still alive."

John could tell that Sherlock was struggling to contain his excitement. "I should like to see those case details tomorrow as well after our talk."

The taller detective, Helson, shook his head, his body language evidentially showing that Sherlock's information and demands were wearing thin on his patience. "I'm afraid to inform you," he said with voice dripping with sarcasm, "that we weren't the one to look into that business. You'll need to go to another police station in the district where the crimes occurred for that. Now if you have quite finished mucking about and playing around with this investigation-"

Sherlock shot him a mischievous, almost predatory look. It sent a thrill down John's spine. "Playing inspector? Oh no, I assure you that I never play. I hunt. And I suspect we will be seeing a lot of each other in the near future."

The gleam in his eyes caused the inspector to move away hastily, almost backing into his shorter colleague. "If you'll excuse us, we'll be heading back to the station. Good afternoon gentlemen." They exited quickly, evidently afraid of being cornered and badgered with more of Sherlock's questions.

Sherlock and John followed after them but a slower pace. As they left, John stood on tiptoe and hissed into Sherlock ear, "Hunting? What the bloody hell were you on about?"

Sherlock looked down at him, his mouth quirked up into a slight smile. "It was just a touch of intimidation. Didn't it sound good?"

John rolled his eyes at his antics. They exited the building and Sherlock hailed for a hansom cab to take them back to Baker Street. John clambered into the back, though Sherlock had place a steadying hand on his waist when he stumbled on his way, his still sore shoulder throwing him off balance.

"Careful," murmured Sherlock, before he retracted the hand at John's waist and turned to give the driver the address. While he did this John willed the colour to leave his face and his pulse to stop racing the way it currently was. It was merely a hand on his back for Christ's sake, it was hardly something to get worked up over.

Sherlock broke the silence and continued speaking. "Remember those two inspectors, John. The Whitechapel Murderer experts often say that the policemen involved in the case were not capable or competent enough to tackle it. We now have proof of this assertion. If they were intimidated by me, one can only imagine how they will react to a knife wielding serial murderer that they're supposed to be tracking and confronting."

John rolled his eyes. "You think that every police officer, except maybe Lestrade," John stopped when he heard Sherlock snort, and he raised an eyebrow. "Oh I see, every police officer _including_ Lestrade is wildly incompetent, at least according to you. And there are days when I would prefer to confront a knife wielding serial killer over you," he said in a teasing tone.

Sherlock's lip quirked up in amusement, assured by John's manner that he wasn't speaking seriously. "And what days would those be? I admit that I have never heard you describe your fear of me in such harsh terms before."

"Oh I don't know, maybe on the days when I open the fridge to get milk and then find a disembodied head? And believe me Sherlock, just because you've never heard me say things like that doesn't mean that I don't think them regularly enough." Had John been the sort of man who liked to wink at his own witticisms, he supposed he might have punctuated the end of that sentence with a wink. Instead he settled for giving a smirk in Sherlock's general direction.

Sherlock chuckled. "I see. I shall have to be more aware of your wishes with regard to my behaviour."

John snorted. As if Sherlock would ever change. The day that Sherlock bought milk would be the day that the earth ended, as far as John was concerned.

"On a more serious note however," Sherlock continued, "we will shortly go back to investigate the possible connections with the Wilson and Millwood attacks and the serial killer at the other police station that Inspector Helson mentioned earlier. I shall go back to the scene of Polly Nichols' murder tonight before it has been entirely cleaned up. But I shall do so alone; you need not come with me. And in any case, I suspect that you would prefer an early night as your shoulder is still hurting you and you slept poorly last night. I shall be able to handle the crime scene alone. Although any valuable evidence will undoubtedly have been removed by now, the layout and exact placing of the body are important to see first-hand."

John repressed a sigh of relief. The idea of going out again tonight after so little sleep and with his shoulder throbbing was highly unappealing. If Sherlock had said that he didn't want him there, that would have been another matter. Instead, as he considered Sherlock's words, John was quite touched by his unusual show of compassion, particularly because it was directed toward him. Although he couldn't help feeling anxious for Sherlock's safety, something which he had been feeling far more often than usual of late. Of course John had always worried about Sherlock, but this was different. John wasn't sure how his life would continue if Sherlock stopped being in it. It wasn't something he could recall feeling with such fervor ever before and the strength of his feelings scared him.

"Be careful," John said while looking out the window when he realized that he hadn't replied to Sherlock's monologue. Sherlock turned to look at him contemplatively but said nothing in reply.

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**Coming up in chapter 4:**_ Sherlock rules out and confirms victims, and the interviews with witnesses and the family of Polly Nichols are conducted. The pressing matter of money arises again and forces John to look into getting a job, and John experiences guilt over something he cannot change. Cue awkward Sherlock comforting._

**A/N: UPDATE NOTICE: Still have two (potentially nasty) exams left so I'll be cramming for the next week (sadly during my birthday) and then I'm free. So, this translates to the next chapter being up in approximately a week and a half. See you then, and feel free to give any and all feedback if you have the time.**

**And apologies if I haven't replied if you left a review of chapter two - again, exam stress eating into my time. I'll try to rectify that asap.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Apologies for the delay in this chapter, what with exams it took longer to post than anticipated. Thank you again to everyone who reviewed, alerted and favourited. Please keep them coming, they are very much appreciated! And thanks again to Rairakku, without whom this chapter may never have seen the light of day.**

**Onwards!**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

It was some days later that John truly comprehended the magnitude to which Sherlock's exertion could grow. He had never seen the detective so eager to collect the facts and to deduce and to _solve_, and that was really saying something. The energy and excitement that surrounded him was unlike anything John had ever seen before. Even Sherlock's frenzied interest in the Baskerville case did not attain these heights of activity. This phase had really begun when Sherlock came home the morning after the inquest. His dark hair had been lightly coated with morning dew and his eyes gleamed, a sure sight that the game, as he had once put it, was on. John had witnessed this over the breakfast table after a more-or-less comfortable night of uninterrupted sleep, and it inspired admiration in him to see the detective so excited and eager.

It was so awe-inspiring that John was very much amenable to Sherlock's wishes that morning, and he gladly agreed to accompany Sherlock down to the police station. John quickly finished his tea and toast, trying to eat even faster when he noticed Sherlock's restless feet tapping against the floor, although the detective had the decency not to rush him in so many words. He was soon ready to leave, on the journey to the station Sherlock explained to him how he wanted to confront the two 'dimwitted' inspectors once more. John pitied them to a certain extent, although that quickly vanished when he remembered that their ineptitude would ultimately lead to at least four other murders, unless Sherlock could successfully intervene.

Their day spent in the dreary police station was very long, with the only diversion coming from the officer on guard the day before who regarded them with both fear and suspicion. It was quite comical, and was the only thing that John had to smile about by the end of the day. Not that he didn't enjoy accompanying Sherlock on cases, but he had certainly forgotten how trawling through police reports and listening to Sherlock insult every policeman in the vicinity grated on the nerves after a while.

While John was certainly still enjoying sitting in on and being involved in these cases with Sherlock, he resolved the next day to let the detective forge on without him for the time being and only offer his input when it was specifically asked for. While John certainly still enjoyed being involved in Sherlock's cases, he decided that tomorrow he would let the detective forge on without him for the time being and only offer his input when specifically asked. This was not on account of the mind-numbing day at the police station however, but rather for a more pressing reason – money. It had occurred to John soon after arriving in their current time zone that they couldn't survive on Sherlock's pilfering. Eventually Sherlock would be caught. And of course, that didn't even begin to cover the moral implications.

John had resolved that getting a job really was an utter necessity for the duration of their stay, however long that may be. He had brought up the matter with Sherlock on the morning after they had returned from the police station. They had both been sitting in their armchairs, drinking tea in John's case and thinking in Sherlock's, when John cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked up at him sharply and raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Question?"

"I – yes. I need to get a job. God knows you won't get one."

"You're mistaken John, I currently have a job."

John rolled his eyes. "Fine, a _paid_ job. I need to get one while we live here."

"Money," Sherlock huffed. "How dull, I don't know why you even feel the need to consult about it with me."

"Money isn't dull, Sherlock, in my experience it usually comes in handy a lot of the time. And I do need to inform you as to why I won't be around all the time once I get a job. Although…" John trailed off.

"Although you don't know what kind of job would suffice?" Sherlock returned with a smirk.

John mumbled an affirmative, a slight blush overtaking his cheeks. "I know that I can't be a doctor or physician or whatever they call it here. The practice methods are all different. Mine would be severely examined and seen as malpractice. Not to mention that I can't actually prove that I'm a trained doctor. No doctorate and no records mean no job. And I'm not about to become a soldier again."

John could have sworn that he saw Sherlock suppress a shudder when he alluded to his past, but then decided he must have imagined it. "So, what do you suggest?" he prompted.

Sherlock thought for a few moments. "Any form of heavy manual labour, like dock or mill work, is out of the question."

"Why? My injuries are hardly that severe."

Sherlock threw him a sharp look. "I know your capabilities, that is not my concern. These jobs are extremely detrimental on one's health and life expectancy. I will not allow my Boswell to put himself through unnecessary hardships purely for the sake of money."

"I have always been the breadwinner of the relationship," John joked weakly. Truth be told, he was exceedingly touched that Sherlock would bother to be so considerate of him and his health. That he wanted John to be with him as long as possible. At least, with the talk of life expectancy, John hoped that that was what Sherlock meant.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Of course, I see an obvious solution. You could make use of your blog writing skills," he said, obviously trying and failing to conceal his eagerness.

"Blog writing?"

"Not quite, though something similar. Journalism. This case is going to hit the headlines quickly and the media frenzy will shortly be unleashed. Journalists will clamor to report everything first and with the most sensationalist of facts. However, that will leave a gap in other sections of the news, which will be inevitably neglected. I should imagine that some openings are already be in existence. If you merely type up some sample articles, you should be amply prepared for an interview."

And just like always, Sherlock had been right. After furiously typing on (and occasionally swearing at) the typewriter for a week, hearing some snarky comments about how John's two-finger typing method was even more detrimental on a typewriter from a certain consulting detective along the way, John had some articles that he was satisfied with. They merely consisted of opinion pieces on certain topics and articles he had found in other newspapers, but he still felt sort of proud that he had rustled them up so quickly and that they weren't overly awful either. He got in touch with several newspapers and sent his articles off, hoping to hear back about interviews within a few days.

By the end of the week John was in luck, with a modestly sized London newspaper company calling him in for an interview, and then offering him a job when said interview went well. In fact, it went better than any job interview John could ever recall having in his entire life. _Perhaps I should consider a career change_, he thought after the interview when his new boss was giving him a quick tour of the workspace and the printing area. His job was to write opinion pieces and select and reply to select readers' letters. Although it wasn't a particularly well-paid job, it was still enough to pay for necessities and leave him enough time to aid Sherlock at least occasionally. After all, there were not many chances to get up close and personal to Jack the Ripper. Or rather, the Whitechapel Murderer. _Great_, thought John, _now I'm correcting myself. Surely I __get enough of that with Sherlock._

The tour was soon over and all that remained was for him to be introduced to a few curious new colleagues who had stopped working to watch his progress through the office. He saw a particular group of men in the corner, and supposed with a chuckle that was the past equivalent of gathering around the water cooler for a chat. He and his senior boss, Mr. Richardson approached them and they were introduced briefly.

"This is your new colleague, gentlemen. His name is Mr. Watson and he is taking over for Mr. James while he is absent. These are some of the faces that you will become familiar with during your time with us Mr. Watson, and I'm sure they will offer you guidance if you ever have any troubles. Excepting Mr. Brandon of course," Mr. Richardson said with a laugh, "He is not a man to be trusted with giving any kind of guidance."

The said gentleman assumed an expression of mock indignation but soon broke out into a smile and shook John's hand cordially.

"The others are Mr. Wentworth, Mr. Lesley and Mr. Smith," continued Richardson, pointing to each in turn and they all shook John's hand with a muttering of warm welcome. After a few more minutes of small talk, which were mostly steered by Richardson and Brandon, John was free to go with an agreement to return and begin his part-time work the next week.

That night John found himself facing Sherlock once more from his armchair, at liberty to eagerly discuss the facts of the case now that his efforts to get a job had been fruitful. And sitting back in Baker Street with the detective it struck John that having been previously caught up with getting employment, he now feared being left behind in the case due to his more frequent absences. He decided to use this opportunity to get any information he had missed out of an unusually loquacious Sherlock.

"So Mary Ann Nichols," John mused. "From what I remember from our day at the police station, she was estranged from her husband and had five kids, descended into alcoholism and later resorted to prostitution. Is there any way that a member of her family could have killed her? As revenge for leaving her husband? Or maybe someone was angry or ashamed at her behaviour?"

"That seems unlikely. Admittedly the brutality of the attack can often show a signs of anger and a personal motive, but not in this case. Her family was well rid of her. Her allowance from her husband that she lived off was gone, explaining her resorting to prostitution, and she hadn't contacted any member of her family in a number of years. She had no reason to fear any of them and they had no reason to go after her when she had left their lives and was utterly disassociated from them."

"What have you deduced from the attack itself?"

"It was conducted by a man. A woman would not have the strength for such actions while also having the ability to walk around London alone and remain unnoticed. A man has the brutal strength to carry it out and also can walk away from the attack late at night without being noticed; people will presume that he is an average man who must have gotten into a fight. The nature of the injuries suggests a violent and brutal person, although probably not a sadist."

"Not a sadist?" John exclaimed, "Sherlock, the poor woman was pretty much mutilated, her skin was cut to shreds in some places!"

"Yes, but most of those injuries were inflicted post-mortem. A sadist is one who receives gratification, often sexual in nature, from inflicting pain on others. A true sadist would inflict the abdominal mutilations first in order to inflict maximum pain and feel control over his victim. In this case, she was murdered very swiftly. Two incisions on the neck slicing through the jugular would kill someone exceedingly quickly, would it not?"

John nodded. "A minute or two at most is all it would take, I should think."

"Precisely. Why chose such a quick method to kill someone? Because He was more interested in what happened after death. I am not pretending that this man is not deranged, merely that he is not guilty of sadism in the true sense of the word. He is more interested in the body than in the actual act of killing or torture. Now that this has been established," Sherlock continued, "let us move on to what I gleaned from the crime scene itself."

"Ah, you're finally going to tell me what you found?" John asked, a trace of annoyance in his voice at not being told earlier. He had been trying to nudge Sherlock subtly, and later not so subtly, into telling him his observations and conclusions. Sherlock's obstinacy had come into play however, and he had refused to divulge anything when John asked until now.

Sherlock merely smirked at John's frustration. "Her body was found at twenty to four in the morning in Buck's Row, Whitechapel. From our visit to the inquest, we know that the pathologist estimates that she died ten minutes before her discovery, at half three."

"Yeah, I remember. So?"

"John," Sherlock said excitedly, "you yourself commented on medical methods inaccuracy only a few days ago when you mentioned your desire to get a job."

"It was hardly a desire," John grumbled.

Sherlock ignored his interjection. "In any case, as you have said yourself, the pathologists of this time are hardly known for their accuracy. I find the doctor's approximation of the time of death to be suspect. From his description, which was rather poor, I believe that her death was considerably earlier than he placed it, perhaps even up to forty-five minutes earlier. The doctor's time of death calculations were primarily based on liver temperature, but his calculations assumed that she was killed where the body was found. If that were the case, his estimate would indeed be correct. However, I have concluded that she was originally killed elsewhere and then moved to the location where she was found. In order to move the body without attracting attention, he would have had to cover her in something or use some form of private transport. Either of these options would have slowed the loss of body heat, and thus lead the pathologist to an erroneous time of death."

"But hang on, how can you know that the body was moved in the first place?"

"Ah, this is where it becomes more interesting. The police had not yet cleaned the lane when I made my crime scene examinations, fortuitously for me, although perhaps it does not reflect well on the police force. I noticed that the amount of blood present however was far too little for someone with a slit throat and abdominal injuries."

"Some of the blood could surely have just been worn away from all the people going through there surely? Or business owners might have washed it away themselves?"

"No. Although the police were tardy in cleaning up the crime scene, they had in fact left it relatively untouched and were careful in removing the body." Sherlock had a grudging expression as he conceded this. "Thus, any bloody spilled where the body was found should still be there. So where is the rest of the blood that should have come from the neck wound?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "The location where she was actually killed I suppose?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed. "She was dumped in Buck's Row, but that was not the site of her murder. I examined every back alley and conceivable outdoor location where the murder could have taken place from which it would have taken approximately twenty minutes to travel with a body. But there is nothing at all to suggest a killing, meaning that our killer must have meticulously cleaned up after himself in the location where he killed her. Of course, he may have killed her in an interior location. Unfortunately, I will have to concede my limitations on this point, as it is not possible for me to examine every rented room located in that area. We have a skilled, clever killer on our hands, a man who is certainly more skilled that the police."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts. While Sherlock was thinking of how best to proceed, John found himself wondering what kind of man they were looking for and how on earth they would ever catch him.

"What about those two women that the inspector mentioned? Annie Millwood and the other women, uh, Wilson was it? Were they his victims too?"

"Ah, yes and no. Annie Millwood was attacked and died in February of this year from stabs to the legs and lower abdomen. As I said before, these are the type of injuries that the killer would inflict post-mortem, not as a means of actually killing the woman. I suspect that his first target will always be the neck, regardless of whether the woman is his first or last victim. That will always be his first move even as he evolves as a killer. Therefore that discounts Ms. Millwood."

"And the other woman, you think she's a legitimate victim?" John prompted.

"The illustrious Ada Wilson. I managed to track her down and speak to her yesterday under the guise of being a police officer trying to follow up her case. Unfortunately she had little to say, no reliable description of the attacker to give. She was attacked at the end of March and stabbed twice in the neck. Anything of value that she may have had initially has now been forgotten in any case, although I suspect that she didn't get a good look at him during the attack."

"A neck injury? So it was him? I'm surprised that she survived."

"While many exclude her case as she was stabbed in the neck rather than slashed, I believe her to be one of his first victims when he was still evolving his technique. He did not succeed in killing her with the stab wound and discovered in the process that slashing the neck better suited his purposes. However, I believe that this lead will take us no further and I do not intend to exert any more energy on it."

John found himself feeling slightly ill as he listened to Sherlock detail the attacks. As a doctor, and a military man, he wasn't particularly squeamish and had seen his fair share of brutal and violent injuries, and yet the idea of butchering these women repulsed him to the point of nausea. He couldn't shake the image of Polly Nichols' body from his mind, the mutilated flesh searing into his memory. He ignored the feeling as best he could.

"That's two victims so far," he found himself murmuring for no particular reason.

"It will soon be three," Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

John sat bolt upright in his chair. "What? When?"

"The body of Annie Chapman will be discovered in the early hours of tomorrow morning, the eighth of September."

John jumped up from his seat. "Then what are we doing just sitting here? We need to go and help her!"

Sherlock regarded him with an almost bored expression. "While your brave and noble spirit is once again seeping through, it will do no good in this situation. Even if we were able to locate the woman and prevent her murder, we would not only draw attention to ourselves and possibly put ourselves in danger, there would merely be a different body somewhere else in the future. This is our only hope of staying one step ahead of the killer."

"But Christ Sherlock, if we both go down together we can catch him! There won't be anymore murders then, so what's the problem? We need to get moving!"

Sherlock shook his head. "No John. Remember, this man moves the body from a first unknown location. Even if we sat waiting for him in the place that we know the body will be moved, we will run into numerous problems."

"Like what?" John asked angrily.

"Firstly, this is an extremely smart and careful killer. He will undoubtedly check the location of the body dump for possible witnesses, even before he has killed his target. If by some chance he happens to notice us, he will simply change the location of the body dump. And if we attempted to involve police they would only be suspicious of us. Think, John! We do not have a realistic way in which to explain the source of our information. The only conclusion they could come to would be that we were somehow involved in the murders themselves. It's the only explanation of our foresight and knowledge, at least for them. No, the only way to catch this person is to literally catch him in the act, and we cannot do that until we know where the murders are occurring. Hence, there is no point in attempting to go now."

John tiredly acknowledged Sherlock's logic; he knew that he was right. If they stopped this murder, then a different one would occur and they wouldn't have the advantage of knowing when and where it would happen. But every instinct in his body screamed at him to get up and do something, anything to prevent what was going to happen. He paced agitatedly for a few moments in silence, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm his conflicted mind. He ended up resolving to go lie down and attempt to clear his mind.

As soon as he got into his bedroom, he loosened the cravat at his neck (which he still hadn't learnt how to tie properly) and removed his jacket and threw it across the room. He didn't bother to remove the rest of his clothes, instead flopping onto the bed covers and twisting his fingers in an agitated manner. John couldn't stop thinking about the case. In a few hours time, he knew that a woman would be brutally murdered. And he was consciously choosing to do nothing about it. What did that say about him as a person?

John did not know how long he was lost in his own self-deprecating thoughts. However long it was, a soft tap at his door roused him. He raised his head from the pillows and called out, 'come in'. He allowed his head to sink back down when he saw that it was Sherlock at the door.

Sherlock approached the foot of the bed cautiously, a trace of concern in his brow on seeing John so evidently forlorn.

"You are upset."

John did not bother to respond.

"Is it something I said or did that aggravated you?'

John shook his head. "It's not you. It's me." He resisted the urge to snort at the overused clichéd line. "Well. It's sort of you."

Understanding flashed in Sherlock's eyes. "You are attempting to blame yourself for the imminent murder of Annie Chapman. By doing nothing you equate yourself with the murderer himself."

John's throat had become very dry and he struggled to get the words out. "I know what's going to happen, and it's going to be awful. I'm not doing a thing to stop it. I'm at fault by omission. What kind of person does that make me?" He closed his eyes, the guilt becoming almost overpowering.

He felt the bed dip as Sherlock sat down beside him. "You feel culpable for something that you are not responsible for."

"I am responsible. This is another human being we're talking about."

"If that is your concern, then let me propose another scenario. We stop Annie Chapman from being murdered, we protect her. What happens next?"

"What do you mean?"

"We prevent her murder. But what will the killer do then? Will he go after the next victim as history dictates he does, or will he find someone else, someone we have no knowledge of because we have caused him to veer off course? And furthermore, if by protecting Annie we deny our killer his intended target, will this escalate his kills and result in more deaths? Will you claim yourself responsible for those deaths too?"

John had no response for that.

"It is already too late for us to interfere tonight," Sherlock continued, "but you must bare it in mind once we encounter his later victims. Our interference at inappropriate stages may radically alter the killer's action, thus making it almost impossible to accurately predict what will happen next while also implicating ourselves. It also has the further disadvantage of putting additional innocents at risk."

"There has to be another way. I … wish that things were different."

"We cannot wish for things John. We either take action or we don't, and then we react to our action or inaction as we see fit. That is how life moves on. For instance, I responded to my earlier inaction in regard to your distress downstairs by coming up here to… comfort you."

John felt the urge to giggle when he heard Sherlock awkwardly complete that sentence, and John indulged himself for a moment. "Who knew that Sherlock Holmes could be a source of comfort?'

He felt the bed shake slightly with Sherlock's laughter and an easy silence settled between them. Sherlock then moved so that he was no longer sitting but lying down on the bed next to John.

The silence was broken when Sherlock suddenly said, "John, you are well aware that I don't understand emotions with the same depth as you. And I will admit to being unwilling and somewhat - awkward in showing and reacting to my own emotions, and to emotion directed towards myself, although this has changed somewhat since we met. I have regard for few people in this world, but you are one of those people. I find it… difficult to imagine my life continuing without your presence in it." Sherlock paused, clearly unsure if he had expressed his feelings in the appropriate way. John's heart was hammering in his chest.

John slowly put his hand over the slimmer one that was resting beside his on the bed covers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I care about you too," he said softly.

John's heart continued to beat at what seemed like double time though all else was silent and still in the world. He worried that Sherlock's formidable senses would pick up on that, but he forgot his concerns once he became more comfortable and more aware of his exhaustion. Eventually John fell asleep with Sherlock wide-awake beside him. Their hands remained loosely joined. For some reason that wasn't entirely known to Sherlock, he felt the inclination to remain close to John instead of returning to his own room to think.

They stayed like this for some time, John asleep and blissfully unaware that Sherlock was still there, gently clinging to his hand and reveling in the novelty of the situation. John would occasionally move and sigh in his sleep but his body made no subconscious attempt to move away from the other man. They lay in the growing darkness and warmth.

After a few hours however, John began to whimper in his sleep. The nightmares that had been absent for the last few days had evidently returned now that John did not have his monetary and job worries to distract him. John's sounds of distress grew in volume until it became clear that he would begin to thrash around in his sleep. Sherlock gripped John's hand tighter in his own without even thinking about it, assuming that some connection to the waking world would help John combat his terror. John's discomfort began to die down and he held onto Sherlock's hand tighter in his sleep. Sherlock kept his vice grip, only loosening when it became clear that the nightmare had passed. He kept John's hand clasped in his own for the remainder of the night, occasionally running his slim fingers over the warm skin and wondering why he felt the way he did and what the significance of it was.

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**Coming up in chapter 5:**_ There are further investigations, John starts to have more nightmares and relates them to Sherlock, and one of them does something that has serious consequences._

_**A/N: [Random note for any Wallander fans (Kenneth Branagh version) in the house - I know I saw something related on tumblr, but I can totally see Kurt Wallander as John's dad who went off to Sweden to become a policeman after serving in the army, building a new identity for himself and leaving his old life behind. I think I'm just seeing this because I see an older Martin Freeman whenever I look at Kenneth Branagh. Nonetheless, I think this crossover must be written sometime. :P]**  
_

_**Back on topic - Apologies if I didn't get around to replying to your review if you left one, again, said exams have interfered with my fanfiction life. **__**Next update should be rather quicker this time because I'm now finished university for the summer. **_See you then.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hi again everyone, thank you so much for your alerts and reviews, they warm my heart. Enjoy the following and thanks again to my wonderful and friendly transatlantic beta reader Rairakku who keeps me turning out these chapters. :)**

**Onwards!**

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**Chapter 5**

John woke the next morning feeling refreshed and surprisingly well rested. He stretched in a cat like fashion, before turning his head and realizing that Sherlock wasn't there. John knew he shouldn't have expected to see him; Sherlock had probably left as soon as John fell asleep, his 'comforting' duties fulfilled. After all, that was the motivation behind Sherlock's actions last night, wasn't it? Nevertheless, John couldn't help feeling disappointed that Sherlock was gone. He imagined what it would be like to wake up next to Sherlock, and even though John couldn't quite picture it, he was sure that it would leave him feeling contented. John paused, startled by his own thoughts. Why would he feel that way?

Now that John thought about it he recognized that he had been thinking more on these lines of late. For example when he had felt disappointed that Sherlock addressed him so formally as 'Watson'. Even back on Westminster Bridge when he was more terrified for the detective's wellbeing than his own. And now thinking about it a bit more, John began to realize that in the lead up to their time traveling, he had been experiencing similar feelings back in their original Baker Street. Right now John couldn't pinpoint the root of these feelings, but he was pretty sure that whatever it was, he probably wouldn't like it.

But that still did not explain why he wanted Sherlock Holmes of all people to sleep beside him at night and wake up with him in the morning. It was something John normally associated with his girlfriends, although he hadn't been in that position with a woman for some time. So what did it mean that he wanted Sherlock beside him? Surely he wasn't developing… feelings for him? No, John's mind adamantly insisted, that was preposterous. As John himself had said on many occasions, he _wasn't_ gay and they were _not_ a couple. He probably just didn't like being alone in this foreign place where he couldn't adjust and felt continually intimidated by his nightmares. John felt soothed, reassured by the other man's presence, that must be it. It was a perfectly reasonable explanation of all the facts.

A niggling voice in the back of his head, which sounded suspiciously like Sherlock, contradicted him, saying, "It is one explanation of some of the facts." John hadn't felt the need for such security and companionship in Afghanistan, and he was a man well used to dealing with adversity on his own, the voice whispered to him. John swiftly told the Sherlock-like voice to shut the hell up.

With a start, John remembered that Sherlock's absence indicated that he must have left to find out about the latest body. The detective must have left departed several hours ago if the light coming from the gap in the curtains was any indication. John idly wished that his old wristwatch had survived the trip back in time so that he could be sure, but unfortunately it had spontaneously stopped functioning on his arrival. He would have to talk to Sherlock about that too, he supposed.

While John felt the urge to run out and join Sherlock wherever he might be, he could not do so; he had his own job to tend to. And he couldn't know where the consulting detective was by now, having forgotten to ask him where the crime scene would be last night. Instead John got up and dressed himself so as to not be late to the newspaper office – he insisted on walking there everyday, as he still had not improved his relationship with hansom cabs. Hurrying down the stairs, John realized that he didn't have time for breakfast as he was perilously close to being late. The accursed cravat hung loosely around his neck, and he left it there to its own devices, dressing properly be damned.

Luckily no comment was passed on his attire once he arrived at the newspaper office (just in the nick of time). John supposed that most of his colleagues tended towards scruffiness what with the hours they kept in any case. He proceeded to spend several hours at the office, working away at his typewriter. He briefly talked with some of his colleagues, although he let them do most of the talking when they approached. It was Mr. Brandon who was proving to be the most forthcoming and friendliest of the lot. He had thus far taken the time to speak to John at the end of every day, and today was not an exception. Evidently he had taken it upon himself to make sure that John was settling in adequately.

"Mr. Watson, let me walk you to the door and tell me what you think of us all so far," he said jovially when John was preparing to leave that evening.

John smiled cordially at him, finding that he actually genuinely liked the man. "I'm settling in fine, everyone has been extremely kind to me."

"Oh come on now Watson, you can tell me what you really think, I swear that I won't judge you for it."

John laughed. "Honestly Mr. Brandon, I have been treated with great kindness. Mr. Richardson has been most accommodating."

Brandon nodded and smiled. "Indeed, Richardson is a very helpful man and once you have the hang of things, he'll leave you to your own devices. Now Mr. Smith on the other hand, you remember him from your first day I'm sure, he might resent you a bit because I think he wanted to take your job as well as his own to earn a bit more money. But don't mind him, he'll warm up to you soon enough. Just don't bring up his friend Mr. James in front of him."

John had nodded gratefully for the information and then paused as they reached the door which lead outside. He couldn't resist asking, "What exactly occurred to make Mr. James leave his position if you don't mind my asking?"

Brandon looked troubled, a look that did not suit his handsome jovial face, and said in a lowered tone, "No one knows. He had been absent for a number of days, and Richardson was rather furious at him because other staff had to cover his articles on short notice, which is never good with the printing press folks. Smith went round to his flat to see why he wasn't showing up as they were quite close; I think they knew each other before they came to work for the paper. His flat was completely ransacked when he arrived, with no sign of James. That was two weeks ago and there hasn't been a word since. Smith is a bit on edge because people are assuming the worst, but they can't get the police to look into it properly because they're too caught up in the current murder. I'm sure you know that one I'm talking about."

Brandon stopped speaking abruptly when he discerned Smith on the other side of the office, and clapped John on the shoulder. "Anyway, let's not talk of such gloomy things. I better let you get to work, and I am nearby if you wish to call for assistance." He walked away with a quick smile and John seated himself and got to work, although he filed away the information that Brandon had told him. There was nothing like an unsolved case to pique his interest.

When he arrived back at Baker Street a few hours later after finishing his work, Sherlock had yet to come home. John ate without him but became worried as the clock struck eleven and he still hadn't arrived. John had come home later than he anticipated, and he had expected Sherlock to be back before him. He anxiously wondered what Sherlock could still be doing at this hour, hoping that the genius hadn't gotten himself into any serious trouble.

John had just formed that thought when he heard quick footsteps on the stairs. He sighed in relief when he saw Sherlock thrust open the door and quickly settle beside the fireside without deigning to give him a greeting. John offered none of his own, cutting right to his questions.

"She's dead then? Annie Chapman?"

"Yes. Her body was found in a back yard in Whitechapel at six am this morning."

"Same injuries as the last woman?"

"The post-mortem has yet to be carried out, although if they are as I remember them to be, then the injuries should match those of the last victim."

Sherlock sank into silence and John realized that this was all the information he would receive tonight. Instead of questioning Sherlock further, he chose to go to bed knowing that his friend was back safely. He offered Sherlock a brief 'goodnight' although he didn't expect to hear one in return, and he turned out to be entirely justified. He went to his room with a sinking heart. Something had changed between them.

The next week continued along in the same vein. John would be stuck at his typewriter while Sherlock continued to collect evidence. While John wanted very much to join him, the upsurge of articles about the recent killings meant that John had to take over writing other neglected areas for the paper, keeping him rather busier than he had anticipated. Additionally a strange sort of tension had fallen between the two men since the night that they spent together, although John refused to acknowledge that the event itself was the cause of the current strain on their friendship. Regardless, it made John almost afraid to accompany Sherlock out on the case when he would be at his most observant and cutting.

During the week they fell into an awkward routine. Sherlock would typically be gone before John awoke, while John headed to the newspaper in the early afternoon. He would arrive home in the evening, sometimes before Sherlock and occasionally after. Sherlock said little about his discoveries in the intervening time, once again unwilling to reveal anything until he had more concrete evidence and pieces of the puzzle fully assembled. They barely seemed to speak at all in fact. John didn't even bother asking him to teach him how to tie the cravat, struggling along by himself.

With each passing day that they spent away from each other, John's nightmares became more and more frequent. They occurred every night and he often found that he was unable to rouse himself from them. This provided him with an unexpected advantage however as the more of them John witnessed, he gradually came to realize that none of them, or at least none of the most recent ones, were dreams about Afghanistan at all as he had previously thought. He couldn't place them at all. He had no memory of them, and yet the feelings that accompanied them were so vivid and unsettling that he simply knew that he must have experienced them first hand.

During the day John was able to forget how they made him feel while he slaved over his typewriter, which was a nice piece of escapism that worked for an unusual reason - while his two-finger typing method had been slow in modern day London, it was nothing compared to what he was experiencing now. His snail-paced typing, coupled with the problems of spelling errors, ribbon jams and ensuring that the paper was inserted correctly, certainly created a foolproof way to forget all his other plagues and woes. Not to mention time consuming.

John almost felt disappointed when the weekend arrived and he didn't have his job to go to and he would now have to deal with Sherlock's reticence. But luck appeared to be on his side as Sherlock finally became communicative again on Friday evening, and the frostiness and tension between them thawed, very much to John's relief. He didn't even bother asking Sherlock what had come between them, as he was too happy to have his friend back to risk jeopardizing their relationship again. Sherlock presented him with a pocket watch, casually mentioning that he noticed John's frustration at being unable to check the time for himself. He also provided John with a helpful warning that he needed to wind it up every night to keep it functioning, as well as a brief deduction about the previous owner of the watch that was reminiscent of Sherlock's deduction about his phone. Sherlock's sudden change in manner was not just confined to Friday evening either, as he dragged John out of bed energetically early on Saturday morning and instructed him to be ready in ten minutes.

Somehow John managed to obey the command and he blearily followed Sherlock outside to a waiting hansom cab. He was too sleepy to complain about the ride and after a short journey they hopped out to find themselves facing a mortuary.

"I may regret asking this, but what are we doing here Holmes?" John inquired while being careful not to use Sherlock's Christian name while they were in public. While John kept his tone slightly teasing, it also had an underlying worry. He had his suspicions of what they were about to do, but he hoped for the best. In vain, it turned out.

"I need to see Annie Chapman's body."

John groaned. "Of course you do. And how do you propose we do that? Do you happen to be intimately acquainted with one of the morticians? Anyway, if you were at the inquest why do you need to see the body at all?"

"I only trust my own eyes Watson, I need to be thorough. And don't be foolish; we shall merely walk in unnoticed. The post-mortem was conducted a week ago. No one will be looking at the body except us. Our only difficulty will be discovering exactly where the body is being stored."

"I highly doubt that no one will notice us. People _always_ notice us, Sherlock. And we couldn't have done this at another time?"

"Her body is being collected for burial in approximately one hour. This is the perfect opportunity. The body will be left somewhere convenient so it can be removed, and no one will wish to examine it until the undertakers arrive."

With that, Sherlock walked up the steps leading into the mortuary, leaving an anxious John in his wake. He caught up with him just as they walked through the entrance. John resisted the urge to slap Sherlock on the back of his head for going through with these insane plans without giving him enough prior warning.

It turned out to be a good thing that John didn't hit him, as he noted with surprise that their plan was actually just as easy to execute as Sherlock had predicted. No one seemed to question their presence there, and Sherlock swept into one of the back rooms without drawing so much as a lingering glance. John followed him much less assuredly, but tried not to draw attention to himself by hiding his unease and nervousness.

After about fifteen minutes of searching through the rooms with bodies lying out on display, Sherlock let out a small noise of delight. The body in question lay in front of him and was conveniently ready for examination. Sherlock whipped out a large magnifying glass from his pocket and gave John a withering look when he let out a bark of laughter on seeing the huge glass pressed up to Sherlock's face. After that John watched him work in silence, but stayed close to the door in case anyone approached and they needed to make a hasty exit.

Sherlock began to talk as he examined the body. "As I suspected, the degree of piercing of the skin is about twenty per cent greater than in the last body. The gashes are longer and deeper, probably made with a longer knife than was used in the previous attack. The knife also has a narrower blade."

"So?" replied John impatiently.

"I have several hypothesizes, but I shall need time to collect additional data before I draw any conclusions. The abdominal injuries are more severe; she was disemboweled unlike the last victim," Sherlock explained while beginning to beckon John closer to the table. "Come here and look at her throat, John. Tell me what you can from it."

John approached, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell coming not only from this body but the others nearby. He repressed the urge to gag as he saw what Sherlock wished him to examine. Despite his war experiences, John wasn't sure if he had ever seen someone's neck so badly disfigured purely with the use of a simple blade. It looked even worse than the last body. He tried to ignore the smell as he looked at the faint discolouration on the remaining skin surrounding the gashes. He ran his finger along the skin above the gash.

"I suspect that the hyoid bone is broken, although without the appropriate scans or a full dissection I couldn't say for sure. There's also bruising here," he gestured with a finger. "It's hard to see, but definitely there. I would say that the guy tried to strangle her before slashing her throat. I'm not sure which caused her death, but chances are that he strangled her until she was too weak to fight back and then finished her off with the knife."

"Interesting," mused Sherlock. "Very interesting."

"What? Why?"

Before Sherlock could answer, the door behind them was thrown open to reveal a mortician with several undertakers beside him. John cursed himself for having moved away from the door.

"What are you two doing in here?" he asked quizzically.

"My apologies for intruding, I just wished to quickly examine the body before you arrived. You seem to be early, but no matter, I had just finished regardless."

"I don't recall seeing you here before, and no one was scheduled to look at the body, all examinations have already been conducted," the mortician said slowly.

Sherlock shot him a small smile, and John had to admire his acting ability. "I am in fact a new addition here. Mr. Baxter thought that I could get some additional experience by doing this. He also suggested I show my friend, Mr. Watson the workings here. He's a journalist you see and he is in need of an article for his weekly column."

Before the mortician had a chance to say anything else, Sherlock swept past him quickly. "My apologies once more, we shall get out of your way at once. Come my dear Watson, I can always show you around another time if you need additional information."

John found himself walking hurriedly alongside Sherlock and hissed into his ear as they quickly exited the building, "So much for not getting _interrupted_. I knew this would end badly. What are we going to do now?"

Sherlock shot him a bemused look. "We shall return to Baker Street at once. And then I imagine that you shall want to have some tea to calm your frazzled nerves."

While John was highly annoyed by Sherlock's remark, he did indeed consume an entire pot of tea as soon as he entered the flat half an hour later. And he refused to share it with the consulting detective. _That_ would show him.

The next day, Sunday, John decided that he needed to tell Sherlock about his nightmares. Not because they had escalated but because he suspected that they may have something to do with their current predicament. He waited until Sherlock seemed to be in one of his better moods before he approached the topic. It ended up being towards later in the evening before the opportunity finally arose. By then an uninviting fog had begun to settle outside, and there was little for John to do except watch Sherlock use his mind palace and think about the case. John decided to speak up after dinner before he lost his nerve.

"Sherlock. I have been having… troubling nightmares," he said at last with a hint of embarrassment.

"I am aware of that. Your old war experiences seem to have been awakened by this adventure of ours."

"Well, I've been having more of them, and I'm not entirely convinced that they are about Afghanistan," said John hesitantly.

"Oh?" Sherlock's piercing grey eyes settled on John's soft brown ones, an unreadable expression in them.

"I initially thought they were, but now I'm not so sure. I think they might be, that is, I'm not entirely sure but it definitely does seem to be a possible explanation, though the details are still a bit foggy and everything –"

"John," said Sherlock with a hint of amusement. "You're rambling."

"Right. Sorry," said John, flushing slightly. "I think that they're about what happened before we got here. Before we traveled back in time."

Had Sherlock not been paying full attention before, he certainly was now. "And what exactly happens in these dreams?"

"A lot of the time I can't really remember. I forget shortly after waking up. There are just snippets that stick with me. I think that we were on a case; I keep hearing your voice saying 'Davis' and that we must leave Baker Street and find him. I can never remember what happens after that though. I just know that it's something bad. I feel like… Like I'm being crushed and I can't breathe. And it's always dark. I feel like I'll never be able to see again. It's more about how it makes me feel than any kind of specific images, which is why I began to realize that it wasn't Afghanistan I was remembering. Those were always more visual. With these, I wake up and it takes me a moment to remember that it isn't real and that I can breathe again. Even at their worst, the nightmares about Afghanistan never affected me this much."

"I didn't know that they had reached that extent," Sherlock said softly. "I suggest you keep a journal in your room so that you can write everything while it is fresh in your memory when you awake. However, I think the more pressing matter is to find a way of preventing these dreams. That they distress you to this extent is worrisome. I shall inform you when I have a viable solution. But for now, I think it would be best not to dwell on them."

John nodded. He was relieved that he was no longer bearing the burden of these dreams alone, but he was also glad to switch topic. There was nothing to be gained by discussion until they knew more about.

"Tell me what you've been doing about the case. I assume that you interviewed all the recent witnesses and Annie Chapman's family while I've been working?"

Sherlock nodded. "Like our previous victim she was a woman with a husband and family that had disintegrated. In this case, her husband was the alcoholic and he died several years ago. She had also drifted into prostitution for money. Chapman was last seen talking to a man of 'shabby-genteel' appearance with a dark complexion, who also looked foreign. That was the last person to witness her movements while she was alive. Her body was found in a nearby yard half an hour later."

"So did this 'shabby-genteel' man kill her?"

"Perhaps, although I have no conclusive proof. In addition, the description of this man is next to useless. There are a few differences in this case however. This victim was certainly murdered in the yard; her body was not moved from another location. The murder was also more vicious, and she was strangled before the knife came into play. The weapon is also different."

John paused for a moment, letting Sherlock's words sink in. "Wait, the body wasn't moved? So we could have stopped it after all?" John felt anger growing in him. "Jesus Sherlock, did you know that the whole time or were you just pretending so that I wouldn't go running after her in the middle of the night?"

Sherlock sighed tiredly, although his body showed that he was wary of John's growing anger. "No John, I did think that the body was going to be moved. But in the interest of full disclosure, I still would not have gone to the crime scene had I had that knowledge beforehand, for the same reasons I outlined to you last week."

John felt his anger receding slightly, but he would be lying if he said that he wasn't still upset at himself and Sherlock for doing nothing. His mind could accept Sherlock's argument, but his heart could not. But John was not in the mood for an argument, and he decided to move on before he and Sherlock exchanged harsh words. "So you said that the weapon was different," he said finally in a stilted voice, "are you saying that it was someone else who killed her?"

"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied, looking somewhat relieved that John had changed the topic without a fight. "It is very possible that our killer has merely evolved again since the last murder. This method of murder may give him more pleasure. But it would be foolish to assume an automatic connection between Annie and Polly's killer considering these differences. In any case, it will be difficult to say for certain until the next body emerges."

"And when will that be?" John's voice was tense again.

"The thirtieth of September. Of course I have several lines of investigation to pursue until then, but I suspect that I will require another murder in order to conclude this case satisfactorily."

As Sherlock finished speaking, they heard the sound of heavy steps on the stairs outside and the raised voice of the landlady. A few seconds later, the door was thrown open roughly and inspectors Helson and Spratling entered with another officer.

"Mr. Holmes," sneered one of the inspectors, although John had honestly forgotten which one was which. Sherlock and John remained seated, Sherlock with a defiant expression and John with a puzzled one.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Sherlock asked disinterestedly.

"We have some questions to ask you Mr. Holmes," answered the other inspector. "What exactly were you doing in the morgue with your friend here yesterday morning?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied.

"Don't play dumb with me sir!" the Inspector thundered, a vein protruding worryingly from his forehead. "I spoke to the mortician who saw you. I recognized his description of you straightaway. He said that he saw a strange fellow, who was out of place. He said that you don't work there, and Mr. Baxter had certainly never heard your neat little story. When I told him of my encounter with you, he was certain that you are the same man."

"I reiterate, I was not there, nor can you prove that I was."

"Well since you're being uncooperative, I'll move onto my next question. Where were you the night that Annie Chapman was murdered? And Mary Ann Nichols?"

John's mouth dropped open in shock. "You're not serious? You think he's a suspect?"

"That's exactly what we're thinking Mr. Watson," replied the taller inspector. "Mr. Holmes has shown an unnatural interest in this case. Interviewing witnesses, going to crime scenes, looking into possibly connected cases from months ago. And I checked with The Times - you aren't a reporter there and never have been. Mr. Watson may be a reporter, but you certainly aren't. So, why the unnatural interest? And how do you seem to know all these facts about the case that we're keeping under lock and key? So I ask you again, where were you on the nights in question?"

John was about to proclaim that Sherlock was with him in his room on the night of Annie's murder and that they weren't present at the time of Polly's death, but before he could do so, Sherlock shot him a murderous glare. John shut his mouth promptly, initially clueless as to why Sherlock didn't want him to speak. Then the implications of the consequences of two men being discovered to be sharing a bedroom in Victorian London struck home. His face reddened and he saw Sherlock relax slightly as he read John's body language, knowing that the point had been very much understood.

"I have no ready alibi, Inspector. As I'm sure you are delighted to hear."

"Mr. Holmes," said the Inspector with a bilious grin. "I must say that's the best news I've heard all week." He removed a set of handcuffs from one of his pockets and moved behind Sherlock, who had now stood, and snapped them onto his wrists. "Mr. Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Annie Chapman and Mary Ann Nichols." He turned to look icily at John. "Although we have nothing against you Mr. Watson, I suggest that you tread carefully from now on unless you wish to join your friend in prison. Enjoy the remainder of your evening."

John opened his mouth to argue and intervene, but Sherlock shot him a significant glance before he was bustled out the door. "Do nothing, Watson. Meet me at the prison tomorrow morning and I shall give you instructions then."

Sherlock was then pushed out of the door and John was left standing alone in the middle of the living room, wondering just what the hell he was going to do now.

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**Coming up in Chapter 6:** _Neither man can cope well in the absence of the other, John tries to carry on the case but finds it difficult to juggle Sherlock, his job and his nightmares all at once. On top of this, John finds an interesting article in the newspaper and accidentally interrupts something that perhaps he should not have seen._

_**Update notice**: _**If things go according to plan the next chapter shall be out in about the same amount of time as it took to post this one. So not too long. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you thought if you have the time! ****  
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	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: You guys, you guys - again, thank you so much for your kind reviews and support. Please keep them coming, they are very heartwarming and helpful and lovely to read. Thank you once more to Rairakku for saving this chapter from the depths of woe and bad writing that would not have done the story justice!**

**Onwards.**

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**Chapter 6**

John was still trying to process what had happened when he went to bed several hours later, having decided that he needed some sleep if he was going to be functional the next morning. But despite trying to reassure his frazzled nerves, John ended up spending a sleepless night working himself up even more. He relived the awful scene with the inspectors over and over again in his mind, trying to imagine a different outcome each time. It occurred to him late into the night that Sherlock's calm demeanor during the whole ordeal indicated that the detective might have foreseen it all. John wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or concerned by this observation.

While replaying Sherlock's arrest in his mind, John also supposed that if Sherlock had not stopped him, John might have decided that socking the Inspector in the jaw and dragging Sherlock back to his side was a tactically sound move. But of course, Sherlock had made his instructions very clear and John had obeyed (albeit reluctantly). After all, what would his interference have done? Get him arrested alongside Sherlock for attacking an officer of the law, and incriminate himself along the way? That would hardly have helped. He would only have ruined any plans that the idiot detective had concocted before he was taken away.

Eventually sleep crept up on John and he found himself imprisoned by his nightmares for what remained of the night. When he got up around seven thirty, unwilling to stay in bed any longer, he discovered in front of the bathroom mirror that the bags under his eyes had deepened, while his skin had acquired a sickly grey tinge. John's appearance reflected his state of mind. It was appropriate considering his thoughts were still ridden with a plethora of barely coherent worries. They ranged from fears about Sherlock's night in prison to his own hellish dreams, to his ongoing concerns about being trapped in this century for the remainder of his life.

John had himself dressed, breakfasted and down in the living room by eight. Feeling uncomfortably inactive and fidgety, he decided to leave and hurry down to the jail. He avoided taking a hansom cab, but he didn't particularly enjoy the half hour walk either, especially since he took several wrong turns on the way. John finally arrived in a state of frustration and annoyance, and he was permitted entry into Sherlock's cell. Before he left the lobby, John absentmindedly recognized the same officer that Sherlock had intimidated the other day to get the information about the case. He gave the officer a curt nod, too worried about Sherlock to care if the officer remembered him, forgetting him rapidly as John was brought to the detective's cell.

John waited impatiently while the key turned with an audible thunk in the lock, and the bars swung open. He found Sherlock perched on the edge of his bed, looking as dignified as he possibly could under the circumstances. It was a solitary cell and cleaner than John had anticipated, but these descriptions became inconsequential as he tried to see if Sherlock had been in any way harmed by the inspectors. When he had satisfied himself on that front, he began questioning Sherlock himself.

"Why didn't you let me do anything to help you?" John asked angrily as soon as the door had been locked behind him. "And you bloody knew this was going to happen, didn't you! You couldn't be arsed to give me a bit of a heads up?"

"Had you intervened you would have been arrested for assaulting a police officer. They were out looking for any excuse to arrest you; they _wanted_ you to react angrily. I suspected that this might happen, but I did not anticipate it occurring quite so soon," Sherlock answered calmly, as if he were telling John about the weather and not why they were currently stuck in a Victorian jail.

"And as for the whole alibi business, it's not like we _did_ anything," John continued somewhat flustered, "we just fell asleep next to each other!"

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I'm well aware of that John; I was there wasn't I? As I just stated, these Inspectors will use any excuse to arrest you. They are being pressured by the media and the public to catch the person responsible, and they are retaliating by arresting anyone vaguely suspicious in order to make it look like they're doing something beneficial. My so-called 'alibi' would only have made the situation worse. I shall merely have to stay here until the next murder, which will prove my innocence. Even the moronic Inspectors can figure out that I can't be in two places at once."

"And how long until the next murder, Sherlock? How long will you be stuck here for?"

"Approximately a week and a half."

"Christ, what the hell are we going to do until then?" John retorted, feeling his anger slowly rising. "Damn inspectors arrest the one man who could probably solve everything, the bloody wankers."

Sherlock looked amused. "You're beginning to sound like me, although admittedly with more expletives. But perhaps you should consider channeling your anger into something more productive."

John did not deign to reply, instead shooting his flatmate a filthy stare that said, 'how dare you imply that I am becoming like you?' and 'don't tell me what to do with my anger'. John took a few calming breaths. "Okay. You're resigned to this, and there's nothing we can do to break you out sooner. So what are we going to do in the meantime?"

"You will continue your job. In your free time you will continue our investigations alone and monitor any new reports on the case. We must not allow this minor difficulty to interfere with the investigation. You will visit me and report back on your findings." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John's irritated look, before inquiring, "Problem?"

"Plenty," growled John.

Although John spent twenty minutes arguing with Sherlock over his proposed scheme, John finally left the prison still feeling unsure of how Sherlock had convinced him to agree to go along with the plan. Regardless, he had agreed, and now John found himself trying to plan how to take over Sherlock's case, _the_ case, on top of everything else that he had to worry about – his job, his nightmares, and their bloody time-traveling problem for a start.

Admittedly, Sherlock was the focus of his concern. Back in their own time John had always worried about Sherlock to some extent. Sherlock showed little regard for his own health or body in a profession that threw him into harm's way almost every day. Criminals constantly came after him, after them rather, and John feared that one day Sherlock's intellect wouldn't be enough to save him. Eventually somebody would corner him and Sherlock wouldn't escape from it. So yes, it was safe to say that John was no stranger to worry.

But there was more to it than that. This wasn't as simple as chasing down a psychotic cabbie with a penchant for serial suicides, or being hunted down by Chinese gangs in modern day London. They were in a situation that was potentially beyond their control. London was now essentially a foreign country; they knew about it and a little of its ways, but not enough to be entirely at ease with the minutiae of everyday life. John was scraping by with his mannerisms and new means of living, but it would be a lie to say that he wasn't struggling to adjust still. And now without Sherlock, he feared that it was all about to get a whole lot worse. The realization that capital punishment was very much a potential fate awaiting those who got on the wrong side of the police reinforced John's fear.

With everything weighing on his mind, it wasn't surprising that John's nightmares worsened. With each passing day that he spent without the insufferable detective, John found his sleep cycle progressively deteriorating. He would lie awake for hours, afraid to sleep, and when he inevitably lost consciousness he was unable to escape from his dreams. John was still unable to remember them, but he awoke from them in a cold, sickly sweat and biting on his tongue to prevent a scream. Once or twice he had bitten down so hard that he had tasted the coppery twang of blood. If his dreams were about what caused them to travel back to this century, John was afraid that it was much nastier and more perilous than anything he had previously faced. Only John's determination to return home gave him the resolution to keep trying to work out his nightmares.

John did not tell Sherlock about his nightmares and fears, trying to maintain his stoic exterior, but of course Sherlock was able to work it out. Every day when John updated Sherlock on the case, the detective learned a lot from both John's verbal and non-verbal communication. Verbally John told Sherlock how suspicions were growing that a doctor might be responsible for the two brutal murders because a doctor could have access to the appropriate weapons and would have the skills to kill so efficiently. John also told him that journalists were beginning to get frustrated with the police due to their unwillingness to release case details, and they were now writing articles that alleged incompetence in retaliation.

But John's body language told Sherlock's trained eyes other things that John had wanted to keep to himself. The misshapen clothes that had begun to hang off of John's frame and his haggard appearance told Sherlock that John was losing weight and getting less and less sleep. The detective could see that John was too caught up in his worries to monitor his own health properly, ironically something for which he usually chastised Sherlock. John's fidgeting fingers when he reported to Sherlock about any news he managed to uncover told the detective that John feared that he wasn't living up to the detective's expectations. John's creased forehead and slight frown that pulled at his lips when he had to leave told Sherlock that the doctor longed to stay.

If John had been able to deduce Sherlock in the same manner, he would have discovered something interesting, maybe even heartwarming. The detective spent the long hours alone in his cell thinking about the case, occasionally pausing his thoughts to insult a passing guard or sleep. But although he was usually focused, rogue thoughts would sometimes bombard him. Worry and longing for John crept in and distracted him no matter how hard he tried to keep the doctor out his mind. These feelings would bubble dangerously close to the surface whenever John visited, and Sherlock would struggle to keep a neutral face in the other man's company. He missed John. This fact eluded John himself, and was purposefully overlooked by Sherlock.

The week passed by slowly in this manner. Sherlock informed John that the next murder would take place at the end of the week, although he did not inform John where. Perhaps he feared that John would intervene. John felt a twinge of annoyance at this lack of trust, but he said nothing, too concerned about Sherlock's wellbeing to dwell much on his still somewhat guilty conscious. In any event, Sherlock distracted John further by telling him to keep a look out for a letter from the supposed killer that would be published in one of the larger London newspapers. Why Sherlock wanted to see it, John didn't know, but he faithfully kept an eye out for it and casually asked his colleagues at work if they had encountered anything of that description.

The night that the murder was to take place John cried out in triumph in the otherwise empty living room of Baker Street. He held out the front page of a newspaper, quickly skimming through it to ensure that it was indeed what Sherlock had asked him to find. The article reported that a letter had been received the night before and was supposedly written in blood, and was reprinted in full.

**"****Dear Boss,**

**I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Yours truly**

** Jack the Ripper**

**Dont mind me giving the trade name**

**PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha****"**

While John already suspected that the letter was a fabrication, having realized in his short time at the newspaper how devious journalists could be, he still felt satisfaction at having found the letter for Sherlock. It would at least give Sherlock something to do in that ghastly prison cell when John wasn't there. And although it seemed unlikely to John, this edition might have something in it that had been lost over the years and he supposed it would be better to check than make an incorrect and potentially hazardous assumption.

He checked the pocket watch that Sherlock had given him to see if it was too late to visit. He had been to see him that morning, but he thought that he might as well give him the article now. It was currently half past seven in the evening; still early enough to go to the jail again. He resolutely grabbed the paper and strode to the door, picking up his coat on the way. If he walked quickly enough then he could make it to the prison by eight (he still refused to take cabs due to the motion sickness) and late-ish hour be damned, the inspectors would let him see Sherlock whether they wanted to or not. And he suspected that they would permit it – they had begun to be concerned about keeping Sherlock much longer without any real evidence. Adding in the fact that John was a journalist who may potentially write about his friend's false imprisonment, the inspectors were beginning to become anxious.

He stumbled out the front door, muttering annoyed curses under his breath when he tripped over his own feet in his haste. As he walked feverishly into the dark night he allowed himself to become engulfed in the fog. His temper soon settled down after a few minutes of walking and he began to ease off his pace slightly, acknowledging that working up a sweat or straining his leg wasn't really going to benefit anyone. John took note of the darkness that had enveloped him, musing on how much darker it was now than at the same time last week. He supposed that with the fog and the oncoming winter, the dark must be falling earlier in the evening now.

As he recognized the buildings that heralded the approaching prison, John took out his watch again. He started when he read its face again. Half past seven. The same time as when he had checked it back in Baker Street at least a half hour ago. He groaned. He had forgotten to wind up the watch the previous night. John cursed the worsening weather and fog for giving him a reason to not question the time when he left Baker Street. Now he was stuck wandering around London with no clear idea what time it was, other than after eight o'clock. He rubbed his eyes blearily. Had John been sleeping properly this past week he would have noticed that the troublesome watch had stopped. But after being exhausted for so long, he had seen nothing unusual in being tired at half seven, and so he didn't realize his mistake. Hell, if he'd be sleeping properly then he might have remembered to wind it up in the first place like Sherlock had told him to.

John looked around at the street, hoping to see if anyone was walking by who could tell him the time. His face was sullen, as if he wanted to blame the dirty pavement for his failures that night. This was forgotten when he noticed a man about to walk past him, and he jumped at the opportunity. He politely questioned the man, and prided himself on making his words formal and appropriate, despite his weariness.

In fact, his flash of pride made him miss the man's answer, and he was forced to inquire again, feigning that he hadn't heard him. The man reiterated and revealed that it was nearly midnight. John resisted the urge to gape in shock, instead thanking the man and walking away. As he did so, John considered that maybe his sleep deprivation was even more serious than he had previously thought. He felt so tired all the time that he could no longer tell the difference between evening and the darkest night. He was still functioning, but he wasn't living.

John sighed. Visiting Sherlock would be out of the question now. He could make out the prison in the distance and was sorely tempted to go in, but he decided against it in the end. Sherlock may be attempting to sleep, for once, and it really was an unreasonable hour. He decided that he would just have to make up for it tomorrow with an early visit and explain everything.

He began to walk slowly back in the direction of Baker Street, barely aware of his surroundings and brandishing the newspaper uselessly in his hands. Now that he knew the time, or the approximate time rather, he felt the tiredness of his body more keenly. He couldn't remember having felt so exhausted in his life, not even when he had begun adjusting to the hectic life at Baker Street. He didn't know how much longer he could continue without his immune system suffering or real hallucinations setting in.

He was abruptly distracted from his justified self-pity by a muffled scream. He stood ramrod straight in the middle of the footpath, trying to discern which direction the sound had come from. He heard the noise again, fainter this time and to his left.

He moved forward cautiously, aware that the fog obscuring his vision meant that he could unwittingly walk into whatever situation was unfolding.

"Hello?" he called, "is someone there? Are you alright?"

Silence met his questions despite his straining ears attempting to pick up on any further noise. He warily edged forward and called out again. Squinting his eyes in the darkness he was finally able to see that he stood at the entrance of a dark alley.

He took another step forward into the alley and saw the body of a woman lying a few feet away from him. His eyes widened, but despite every instinct in his body screaming at him to run and help her he fought it, his tired brain trying to urge caution on him. Sherlock and the military trained portion of his brain told him that thoughtless and hasty actions could make the situation work. And tonight was the night of the next murder. The struggle he had heard must have ended only a minute ago. He tried to look further down the alley but his vision was obscured by darkness.

He could feel his heart start to beat slightly erratically. Could the culprit still be there? Or was there even one to begin with? Perhaps she had just fainted. But if he ran forward recklessly to the woman, he would be turning his back and leaving himself vulnerable to god knows who else.

John shook his head, getting angry with himself. While worrying about his own self-preservation, he was allowing a woman to possibly bleed out in front of him. His military training snapped into place. He stopped thinking and began to act.

John knelt beside the woman and turned her over gently. He recoiled as his hands were met with damp fabric, and the red liquid seeping through it coated his fingers. Her throat was slashed, the skin exposing the tendons underneath with warm blood still spilling out, though not as quickly as it probably had been a few moments ago. He took the woman's limp wrist and tried to find any sign of a pulse, but it was futile. He placed her wrist back down onto the ground. Her wide-open eyes still showed an expression of horror and fear. As soon as the knife had pierced her skin, her life had been over.

John narrowed in on what he had initially observed – his hand had been met with unbroken fabric. His eyes quickly traveled down her body, stopping at her abdomen. His mouth nearly dropped open. Not because of the gore and mutilation there, rather, the lack of it. It was completely untouched, the only blood having run down from her neck.

John froze. He had interrupted the killer, who hadn't had the chance to mutilate the body, following his normal ritual. And he was now kneeling on the ground. In the open. Utterly exposed.

He never stood a chance. John sensed the blow coming from behind him a fraction too late. The back of his head let out a sickening crack before he fell to the ground, unconscious and blood dripping onto the grimy pavement beneath him, the eyes of the dead woman still wide open as if she had seen the whole thing.

* * *

**Coming up in chapter 7:**_ Sherlock is released when it become clear that he couldn't have committed a murder from a jail cell, and he develops a new radical theory about the case that changes everything. But he can't tell John when he finally arrives back in Baker Street because, for some reason, John isn't there…_

**A/N: For anyone interested, the letter in this chapter does exist in real life - it was sent to a newspaper with that wording and you can see photos of it online if you feel the urge to check!**

**Next chapter should be out in about the same amount of time it took to publish this one, though I might try to get it out sooner what with the cliffhanger. :P See you next time!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Sorry for the wait folks! Thank you again to absolutely everyone who reviewed, alerted, enjoyed, read or even skimmed the story thus far. And enormous thanks to the wonderful Rairakku1234 who helps me out so much in between her own fantastic writing.**

**Onwards!**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Pain. Thundering, pounding, inexplicable pain. Distant sounds and incoherent thoughts. Light was trying to penetrate the blackness, but it wasn't succeeding just yet. Had John been lucid enough, it might have reminded him of when he awoke on Westminster Bridge a few short weeks ago, or maybe even when he was wounded in Afghanistan. But all the time spent in adapting to a somewhat less violent civilian life, and the banal episodes that accompanied it, had eroded his ability to handle this level of pain.

With his blood pounding viciously in his ears, John slowly regained consciousness. He groaned and tried to lift his head, though he ceased the effort when it intensified the throbbing. He took time to breathe deeply, willing the pain away in his attempt to block it out. He tried to move again, this time bracing his body and tensing his muscles in preparation for his movement. After several attempts John managed to stumble to his feet, leaning his shoulder against the nearest wall for support.

He tentatively opened his eyes, unsurprised when dense grey patches obscured his vision. The throbbing pain made it clear that he needed to get back to Baker Street quickly before he collapsed again. He thought he could hear traffic nearby and moved forward, and through the grey patches he swore he could see that he was still in the alley. John's mind raced worriedly, wondering just how long he had been unconscious.

Despite all the fears plaguing his mind, one goal overruled all of them. It was this alone that gave John the determination to stop himself from falling back to the ground and cradling his head. Baker Street, he thought furiously, I must get back to Baker Street. No matter how much pain he was in, how exhausted he felt, he could not fail this undertaking. He had to get out of there.

With this mantra to keep him going, John wandered through street after street with only a vague idea of what direction he was traveling. Unsurprisingly, no one offered to help him. His head and hands were covered blood, his clothes and face dirtied from the pavement and stumbling around incoherently. John knew he looked like a figure to be avoided at all costs.

After stumbling around for some time, perhaps about half an hour although John couldn't be sure, he saw the white street sign of Baker Street above him. He almost sobbed in relief, knowing that his body was very close to collapsing in exhaustion. His muscles were already trembling with the exertion and would soon give out. John suspected that he was on the verge of blacking out again; he didn't have much time left.

John finally found the door to 221 and his exhausted body, moving on autopilot, put his key in the lock without conscious effort. As he entered, leaving the front door open behind him, he staggered over to the stairs and clutched onto the banister tightly, holding his body up despite his protesting legs. As he puffed and panted, the grey spots were ever increasingly obscuring his vision. John's stomach began to give threatening lurches, as he bit back the bile that was forming at the back of his throat, resisting the urge to wretch.

Knowing that he was unable to climb the extra flight of stairs to his room, John decided that the sitting room couch would have to suffice. One flight of stairs, he could do that surely. His hands gripped onto the banister and anything else he could reach for support, and he made slow laborious progress up the stairs, nearly resorting to crawling on all fours.

When he made it to the landing outside the living room, John gingerly relinquished the banister, which had served him so well. He made for the closed living room door, bumping into the wall on his way, his breath became more laboured as he did so. John groaned in frustration at the few seconds it took him to find the door handle. He could have sworn that he heard some movement on the other side of the door, but quickly ignored it. The only sense he trusted at the moment was his sense of touch, which was screaming at him to relinquish the aching pains of his body.

The door finally swung open and John lurched through it into the sitting room. He made out a tall lean figure standing at the fireplace with his back to him.

"Ah John, at last. I was wondering where you could have gotten to as I perceive that you did not spend the night here. I have finally been released by those ignorant fools who call themselves detectives."

John's lungs let out an involuntary gasp, a faint wheezing sound, in return, and he felt his legs give out underneath him. It seemed the floor would have to make do instead of the couch.

"John!" Sherlock's voice grew far more anxious, and John heard footsteps approach him, his vision having given out entirely at this point, like his legs.

"Are you alright? Answer me!"

But John was too tired to answer, much too tired. As consciousness left him once again he thought he felt nimble lean arms enclose themselves around him. He hoped that he wasn't just imagining it; it was a nice feeling. And as he had thought earlier, the only sense he trusted right now was touch.

* * *

Several hours later John awoke in his bed with the covers tucked tightly around him, and his mind actually registered what the world around him was. He was cocooned in a pleasant warmth formed by his body and the bed sheets. John allowed himself to revel in it for a few moments before groggily opening his eyes. Using his elbows, he shifted his body weight and sat up awkwardly on his bed.

"John, you're awake. Drink this."

A cool glass was put to his lips and he drank tentatively as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting of the room. Sherlock's face materialized beside him, long limbed fingers holding the glass in place. When John was done he placed it on the bedside table and then turned back to him.

"I should have known that there was something wrong when you did not arrive home earlier, it is unlike you to remain out at night. Had I been paying attention I also would have noticed your difficulty in climbing the stairs. I… I..."

John looked almost amused at Sherlock's confusion. "Are you trying to apologize? What for?" he croaked, voice gruff and weak from lack of use.

"I am not… apologizing as such. I merely wish to acknowledge my failure to... be observant when it was required."

John felt remarkably touched by Sherlock's statement, because despite Sherlock's protests it _was_ an apology, or as close to one as John would ever get. He tried to cover that emotion and the sudden drumming of his heart by snorting. "You couldn't have known. They'd just released you from that godforsaken prison. It's not your fault that I passed out in an alley somewhere."

"I would hardly think that it was merely 'passing out'."

"What do you mean?" As he spoke, John noticed that some blood lined Sherlock's palm and fingers, which were resting beside his own on the bedcovers. He clutched one of the hands in his own, examining the skin for any sign of injury. He started when Sherlock gently stilled his fingers by covering them with his other hand.

"Allow me to help take care of you before you begin to worry about me. The blood is not mine; it's yours. I carried you up here after you fainted. There was a significant amount of clotted blood at the rear of your skull, which I attempted to clean away with some success. Luckily your skull is not fractured and you have suffered from short-term memory loss and nausea from the combined effects of blood loss and the blow itself. The consequences were evidently serious enough."

John raised an eyebrow. "I made it home in one piece, didn't I?"

"But you might not have," said Sherlock with quiet intensity. "Mark my words John, whoever did this will suffer severely, make no mistake. No one attacks my blogger and fails to reap the consequences of it."

John cleared his throat awkwardly, highly surprised by how forthcoming Sherlock was suddenly acting. Sherlock was usually so uptight and emotionally closed off around him. But right now he could see a much more emotional side to Sherlock, a side that only ever came out when it Sherlock's friends were hurt or in danger. He supposed that the shock of seeing him come home battered, covered in dirt and blood had tipped Sherlock over the edge. John could feel a plethora of emotions threatening to choke him, so he decided to continue on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"So er, when did you get let out?"

"Approximately three o'clock this morning. A double murder took place and even the Scotland Yard inspectors realized that I couldn't be in two places simultaneously. Although I'm surprised that they were able to come to that conclusion independently," Sherlock said with a derisive laugh. "I was released and have ensured that I am allowed full access to the case as compensation. It seems that my imprisonment has worked in our favour."

Although John vaguely registered his use of 'our' and felt a warm glow at being fully included in the case again, his mind had short circuited at the mention of the murder. He gripped Sherlock's hand instinctively.

"When were the murders, and where?"

"One of the victims, Catherine Eddowes was found in Whitechapel around a quarter to two in the morning. Another woman, Elizabeth Stride was found earlier at one o'clock in Whitechapel. I was about to go find out more about the crimes when you arrived and I postponed my examinations."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he saw that John's eyes had widened and he looked deathly pale. "John? Do not strain yourself, it will be of no bene-"

"Listen Sherlock, no, _listen_," he said adamantly. "Oh god, Sherlock. _Sherlock_. I think I - I'm remembering things now. I think – I – I was-"

Sherlock took his shoulders, sensing that John was close to having a panic attack. "Close your eyes and try to remember everything. Breathe deeply," he commanded. It reminded John of the night when they were searching for the graffiti at the railway tracks. It was unfortunate that he didn't have a camera phone full of evidence on this occasion.

"I went out to see you," he paused, trying to remember what had happened next. "But… I'd forgotten to check to see that my watch was right. I asked someone, and it turned out that it was actually past midnight. I was walking back home when I heard a noise. I couldn't see anything but eventually I saw – there was a woman's body lying in an alley. I didn't go over straightaway because… I can't remember why. But I did go over eventually and she had her throat slit, but it was fresh, like it had only been cut just before I arrived. Then… I remember feeling worried that I had somehow moved into a trap, but before I could get up someone hit me, hard. The next thing I remember is waking up but not knowing what had happened." John paused again, realization beginning to sink in. "It was him, wasn't it? The killer?"

Sherlock said nothing, instead digesting this new information. John opened his eyes again. "Sherlock, was it him? Oh Christ, I could have stopped this. I could have helped her if I hadn't been such an idiot and waited around for nothing –"

"Your behaviour was irreproachable," said Sherlock sharply, brought out of his thinking by John's self-reproaching speech. "You thought of your own safety first, which I insist you continue to do. As soon as that woman entered the alley she had no way of surviving without some extraordinary good fortune. Furthermore, as you did not see the killer, the woman's throat must have been slashed before you even entered the alley. Do not trouble yourself on that account."

He stood and surveyed John. "You need to stay here and rest. I shall be back later when you have slept."

John protested and tried to push the bedcovers back and extract his limbs from their cocoon. He was firmly pushed back down into a horizontal position by Sherlock. "You suffered head trauma; you will stay here and gather your strength. Do not make me tie you down to the bed, which, I assure you, I will do if necessary."

Sherlock swept out of the room leaving a pure crimson John behind him. As the ex-army doctor settled back into the warmth of his bed he wondered why it was that he couldn't help acting so oddly around Sherlock all the time. John had always been impressed by his intelligence. And he felt protective of him of course; who else was going to help him when the idiot got himself into trouble? He thoroughly enjoyed his company and felt more comfortable when Sherlock was nearby. But that was merely because of their circumstances. Wasn't it?

But John began to think, to really think. And he came to the realization that some echo of this feeling had been present since they met; it had merely intensified as the two men spent more time together. He noticed more things about the detective now too. Objectively speaking John knew that Sherlock was attractive. His dark skin contrasted with alabaster skin and the remarkable cheekbones he himself had commented on. And his tall lean figure was enviable. But this was purely a detached observation. Wasn't it?

As John felt sleep beginning to call to him and he allowed his eyes to drift shut, his own words came back to him. 'I'm not gay.' That sentence which John found himself using instinctively never convinced the person hearing it. And now for the first time, even John began to truly doubt its truthfulness. Before when he had asked himself, 'Could I be attracted to Sherlock?' he had always instinctually answered 'no'. But now he was uncovering something deep in his being that he had suppressed up until now. And as it was slowly coming out, so to speak, John was beginning to realize what his behaviour towards the detective and the half-veiled feelings for Sherlock meant. And that they could potentially change everything.

* * *

It was not until the end of the following day after boring hours of bed rest and a concerned landlady that Sherlock allowed John to get up and sit with him in the sitting room. Even then Sherlock moved the typewriter away and called for tea, insisting that John was not allowed to work until he was fully recovered. Nor did he allow John to get changed from his comfortable worn pajamas, instead fetching him a thick dressing gown and forbidding him to remove it lest he catch cold with his weakened immune system.

John picked up a paper from the table, grumbling about being treated like a baby, though secretly flattered that Sherlock was taking such pains and precautions over his wellbeing. The feelings that he had started to sort out the previous day were appeased by this concern, making it hard to suppress a smile. Out of the corner his eye he thought he saw Sherlock scrutinizing him, although when he looked up he was merely sporting a smug grin.

John turned back to his paper with a huff, noticing that the letter from the killer was also printed here. "Oh," exclaimed. "Of course, this is why I went out the other night. I found the 'Dear Boss' letter and I was going to bring you a copy. I assume you've read it by now? This is probably a forgery isn't it? Probably some journalist trying to sell papers."

"Yes. Although it's significance is somewhat startling. This is the letter that sparks the famous 'Jack the Ripper' name."

"Well, it certainly has a better ring to it than The Whitechapel Murderer,' John teased, fully aware that it would rile Sherlock up. He continued speaking before Sherlock had the chance to begin a long lecture on the importance of precision and avoiding misleading and unnecessary names. "Anyway, what have you found out? That hasn't been printed in the papers I mean?"

"It appears that two nights ago has been dubbed the 'double event'. Our killer is becoming much more forward and confident. He murdered a woman, knocked out the man who interrupted the killing, and then found another victim only an hour or so later. The woman you found was Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes was the other," Sherlock said, pausing to allow John to remember the names. John gave him a slight nod, telling him to continue his explanation.

"In acting thus," Sherlock continued, "the killer has revealed much more about himself. Although John, I must ask now that you are on the road to recovery, can you remember where in Whitechapel you were when you found the body? "Stride's body was also moved, so it would seem that only you know the original location. Admittedly, I don't know what possessed you to walk through Whitechapel on your way home, a rather foolish decision."

"I – Sherlock, I wasn't in Whitechapel. The woman wasn't murdered there."

Sherlock locked eyes with him instantly. "Say that again."

"Wh- She wasn't murdered in Whitechapel. I was much closer to Baker Street when I heard the noise and went into the alley. Even with the disorientation from the concussion, it couldn't have taken me more than thirty minutes to stumble back to Baker Street."

Sherlock stood and paced the room erratically as John finished speaking.

"Sherlock? What are you thinking?"

Sherlock ignored the question and continued to pace before coming to an abrupt halt. "John, for the past few hours you have been protesting that you are fully recovered. Get dressed and accompany me to this alley immediately. We haven't anytime to lose."

When John looked like he was about to argue, Sherlock startled John by entreating him again before John had the chance to speak. "This has an enormous bearing on the case," Sherlock explained, "I wouldn't go now if I didn't deem it necessary."

"Yes you would."

"Fine, I would," he conceded, "but rest assured that this haste is entirely warranted in this particular moment."

In just under an hour John had managed to get dressed, have Sherlock tie his cravat for him and locate the alley in question. He was initially disorientated and unsure of where he was going, but the problem was ultimately overcome when by chance he discovered the paper he intended to bring to Sherlock on the ground near where he had been knocked unconscious. With a call to Sherlock he moved into the alley, becoming more certain that this was the place as he went further into the alley.

"Here," he pointed to a spot in front of him with conviction. "That's where I found her body."

Sherlock crouched down, muttering under his breath. "From your description she has to have been Elizabeth Stride. And you think she was dead for approximately two to three minutes? Are you utterly sure on that? It is essential that you can say that with absolute certainty!"

"Sherlock, I'm positive. But what does that matter, what's got you so worked up?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock exclaimed, "don't you see what this means? You hardly need be a genius to work this out!"

John shrugged, Sherlock's point still eluding him.

"The second victim, John! The other woman who was murdered! How could our killer have slit the throat of Elizabeth Stride, knocked you out, transported the body to Whitechapel and covered his tracks entirely as well as murdering another woman barely an hour later?"

"An hour is surely enough time? And no one was looking for them, he could have come back after the second murder and no one would know."

"An hour is enough time to kill someone," Sherlock agreed, "and maybe if it was the twenty first century the killer also could have cleaned up after himself. But think of transport John! It just isn't possible in this day for a man to move a body from here to Whitechapel, and then murder another women, and clean it all up on the same night! The killer may have had time to kill the women, but not enough to remove all the evidence. Our killer couldn't have done both."

John looked at Sherlock, his expression asking the unspoken question.

"There are two killers, John. They have similar methods and similar victims but we need to review everything again in closer detail. Our killer knocked you out and murdered Stride shortly before you arrived. But someone else killed Eddowes, someone equally violent and dangerous, if not more so. That's why this case took so long to solve. I was searching for one man when there were two the whole time."

John's eyes widened as he tried to digest this information. "Two serial killers? Bloody hell." His panicked tone told Sherlock everything that his words didn't.

* * *

**Coming up in Chapter 8:** _The boys investigate the two killers theory, a parallel is drawn between the past and present with regards to cases, and another interesting letter is sent to the press._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Once again, sorry for the delay, folks. Enjoy and let me know what you thought. Enormous thanks again to Rairakku for her beta-ing and advice, preventing a disaster chapter.**

**Also important: The wonderful ColorsofDreams made some fan art based on this story, which I have now put as the story cover art. If you want to check out the big version on Deviant art, along with her other wonderful Sherlock pieces, here is the link, and thank you again for your absolutely fantastic drawing, it's a joy to see :) :**

** kjneely . deviant****art art/Love-Knows-No-Boundaries-Cover-Art-Sherlock-BBC-314312431**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"Tell me what you see."

John felt anxious. "Should we really be in here? Remember last time –"

"My memory is perfectly adequate, unlike yours it would appear. As I previously informed you, in lieu of my pursuing legal action against the inspectors for unlawful imprisonment, I have been given full access to the case. We will not be disturbed. Now tell me what you see. Really _look_. This is of the utmost importance."

It was the morning after Sherlock's revelation in the alley, and they were in the mortuary again. Sherlock had claimed that he required more evidence to support his hypothesis. They would have gone the previous evening except Sherlock had recalled that John still needed regular rest after his head injury to prevent any accidents. John had argued that he didn't need a keeper to tell him, a qualified doctor thank you very much, how to recover. But a part of him was glad to put off the trip; mortuaries had never been among his favourite places, and this dislike had intensified during their current case.

Sighing, John roused himself and stared at the body of Elizabeth Stride, deciding to take the path of least resistance and humour Sherlock.

"There's bruising evident in the chest and shoulder area," John said after taking a moment to examine the upper body. "They probably didn't have the chance to develop properly as she died quickly. In fact, they may have taken a day or two after death to develop. It's a pity we aren't back at Barts," he added with a hint of regret, "we could have used an ultraviolet light to more accurately determine how extensive the damage is, and possibly how much pressure was used to cause them. Anyway, her neck has a deep laceration, approximately six inches across It's a clean incision, but significantly deeper on the left side, becoming shallower as it moves to the right. I suspect the cause of death is exsanguination, due to the severing of the left carotid artery."

Sherlock considered his words, then asked, "And the other body?"

John turned to face the other table, supporting another body in similar condition. "Catherine Eddowes?" John questioned, receiving a nod from Sherlock in confirmation. "Right. No ante-mortem bruising that I can see. Obviously the face is quite disfigured," he continued, grimacing internally and trying to avoid looking too intently at said injury. "Throat laceration evident again, and death caused by severing the left carotid artery. She was mutilated too, there's a long incision lengthwise along the abdomen. The post-mortem report states that organs were removed post-mortem by the killer, although I have no way to confirm that as she has already been prepared for burial.

John looked over the body again in case he had missed something. Deciding that he didn't have anything to add, he asked sardonically, "How did I do?"

"A perfectly sound analysis as usual, thank you John."

Irked by Sherlock's casual disregard for his observations, John tried to think about what Sherlock would deduce from the same information. "I don't see how this proves that there were two killers," he argued. Both had the same cause of death. The only reason that the first body wasn't mutilated was because the killer was interrupted before he had the chance."

"Do not make assumptions that you are unable to prove. Although there are many similarities, consider the fine details, the small print so to speak. _Think_, John. What sets these two apart?"

John's face scrunched up in thought. "The bruising?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Sherlock appreciatively (although John suspected that there was a trace of condescension mixed in there somewhere). "Tell me why one body would show signs of bruising and the other wouldn't?"

"I don't know. Maybe he had to subdue one of them but not the other?"

"Good, good, you're approaching the right track. The bruising on the first woman is consistent with someone being forcibly knocked down, with pressure then applied to her chest to keep her held to the ground. At this point, the killer cut her throat. But the other woman, Catherine Eddowes wasn't pinned down. She was killed immediately."

"And what does that tell us?"

"Don't be so dim," Sherlock scolded, "don't you see? We have one murder in which the killer subdued his victim prior to death. But in the other murder, the killer immediately stabbed his victim and then spent significant time in post-mortem mutilation. The former suggests a weaker man, someone who is not strong enough to kill with extreme ease. He must subdue the person before he can get to work. The latter style suggests the opposite. These killers both favour murder by slitting throats and enjoy preying on vulnerable prostitutes who they mutilate. But subtle nuances allow us to differentiate. This is why it was initially difficult to spot that we had two killers all along."

"Differentiate how?"

"One killer is weaker but more sadistic. Why is he more sadistic? Because of the absence of mutilation. It wasn't about mutilating her body to mark it as his own after death; he was taking pleasure in the kill itself, in slitting her throat and feeling her life leave her. This is the man who attacked you."

As John digested this, a thought struck him. "If he's so sadistic then why didn't he kill me?"

'You're not his type. Both men only go after women who have turned to prostitution. He would only kill you if he thought that you could stop him. Evidently he did not deem you as much of a threat."

"But the second killer, you saw what he did to Catherine's body. That looks a lot more like a psycho than the first guy," said John, becoming confused.

"He carried out this mutilation because he could," Sherlock explained, "he wanted to, but he also had the time and means. I suspect that these killers are in competition with each other. This killer mutilated the woman, but it was done cleanly, almost clinically. Like he did it to impress the other more sadistic killer, rather than taking his usual pleasure in it. Mark my words, the next kill will be the most brutal one y-"

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly.

"Sherlock?" said John, concern in his eyes. "You alright?"

Sherlock did not answer and his grey eyes had that unfocused look they took on when the pieces of a puzzle were coming together and he was beginning to see the bigger picture. This look was usually followed by a quirk of a smile when he came back to the ground, eyes focusing once more. Except not on this occasion. Flickers of emotion crossed the taller man's face, almost too fast to notice, though John thought that he saw a brief hint of fear and horror.

"What's wrong?"

"I – nothing. Nothing."

"It sure doesn't seem like it."

"Just _leave it_, John. I'm _fine_. Let's return to Baker Street. We're done here."

Before John had time to feel affronted by Sherlock's snapped retort or bewildered by his sudden change in mood and plan, Sherlock had already swept from the room.

* * *

Sherlock maintained his distance, emotionally and physically, for the next few days leaving John in turmoil and confusion. He didn't understand what had prompted this sudden coldness, especially so soon after the last episode. The consulting detective buried himself in his work and John felt like they rarely saw each other. When he lay in bed at night, he could hear Sherlock pacing in the living room beneath him, muttering at length in a rushed and erratic tone, like his mind was processing things so quickly that his words slurred together in an attempt to articulate them all simultaneously.

After a few days the tension was becoming unbearable. It was bad enough not knowing the root of Sherlock's problem, but being actively shut out of any solution was something that John couldn't cope with. Which is why he walked into the living room a few evenings after their visit to the morgue and pushed the taller man forcibly into an armchair after not receiving even a salutation from him. Sherlock looked like he was about to make a noise of protest, but looking into John's determined face and his (for once) taller imposing stance as John stood above him, Sherlock thought better of it and waited silently for John to speak.

"I've had enough of you brooding the last few days. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Sherlock lied. "I have merely been concentrating my efforts on the case."

"Bullshit."

Sherlock looked up sharply, unused to hearing John swearing directly at him. "What?"

"I said bullshit. You're speaking it, and I'm calling you out on it, because you sure as hell aren't going to bullshit me about anything. I may be an 'average mind', but I'm not thick. You've been acting weird since the morgue, like you realized something that's disturbed you. Tell me."

"I didn't know that you had become so observant," Sherlock remarked dryly, trying to turn the conversation.

"I'm full of surprises," returned John, not having any of it. "Now why don't you return the favour by telling me what the hell is going on with you?"

Sherlock drummed his fingertips on his knees before giving a resigned sigh. "Sit," he gestured with his hand. Sensing that Sherlock was finally going to be forthcoming John obeyed, sitting opposite the detective.

"Unlike you, I have failed to have any significant breakthroughs or flashbacks since we arrived, despite having a far more superior mental capacity. That ended at the morgue. I believe that I remember what you have thus far been seeing in your nightmares.

"What did you remember? What made you remember?"

"As I spoke more about the two serial killers, I realized that I had investigated a similar case before. When I told you that the killings would increase in their brutality, my mind suddenly made the connection. The parallels between the cases were striking, I only wonder at why it took me so long to remember."

"Remember what?"

"Before we arrived in this century we had a case. There were two serial killers in the modern day vying for our, well _my_, attention. It had begun about a month previously. Lestrade initially notified us after the second body was discovered," Sherlock said as he started to describe his memories.

* * *

_It was a bleak day in London when Lestrade showed up in Baker Street that afternoon, raining nonstop and grey. But Sherlock hadn't noticed the weather, despite John's grumblings. He had been waiting for the DI to show and ask for his assistance; he always did in the end. Sherlock was not disappointed; he heard Lestrade's quick footsteps on the stairs soon after._

"_Second body – same injuries – no evidence. Follow – in a -cab?" Lestrade puffed, out of breath._

_Sherlock nodded. Lestrade nodded his thanks and swallowed heavily before giving John a wave and quickly exiting the room again._

_Sherlock turned to the doctor, who was currently typing slowly away at his latest blog entry._

"_Do you require new material for your blog?"_

"_Is that your way of asking me to come with you?"_

"_Yes."_

"… _Okay then."_

"_Good."_

_Sherlock was glad to have John with him. And the case had been stimulating, good. It defied the typical crimes he had come to expect from Lestrade – he could even grudgingly admit on this occasion that the police had a reason to be out of their depth. London hadn't had a serious brutal serial killer in many years, and it was evident after two more bodies were discovered that now they had not only one, but two. And both were brutal, inflicting vicious torture on their helpless victims before killing them and disposing of the corpses. Sherlock had never been more excited._

* * *

"The case proved to be more intriguing than usual, if you remember," continued Sherlock after recounting the origins of the modern day case.

"If intriguing means sickening and perverse, then yes, it was very intriguing," thought John.

Sherlock shot John a look that said 'I know exactly what you just thought, and I disapprove of your dull descriptions', but continued speaking. "We were in Baker Street when I made the breakthrough."

"I remember! It was in the evening and you jumped up without telling me what had happened," exclaimed John, the memory flooding his mind.

* * *

_All was quiet in Baker Street when John returned home from the surgery. He had brought home some take-away and proceeded to dig in almost as soon as he entered the flat. Once he had finished John didn't bother cleaning his plate, instead sinking into the soft armchair with his current book. Sherlock was sitting mutely in the corner, too absorbed in thought to acknowledge anything about John except his presence. They sat like this for a few minutes, interrupted by nothing except the soft ticking of a clock, John's occasional sighs and the rustle of the thin pages of his novel. Then with a sudden exclamation, Sherlock jumped up from the sofa. 'Of course!' he shouted. 'Stupid, __stupid__! Come John, there's no time to lose!'_

_Swallowing a reply, (something along the lines of, 'what are you on about now?') John grabbed his jacket and followed him as he practically flew down the stairs. By the time he had made it outside the front door, Sherlock was already waiting for him in a cab. John slid into the backseat beside Sherlock and slammed the door shut. _

"_Care to explain what you've figured out exactly?" he asked. Sherlock turned to the shorter man and gave a slight smile. John returned it. In that moment he noticed how the rain made Sherlock's hair look even curlier. With the half smile and snug scarf secured around his neck, he looked positively cute. John blushed furiously after that particular thought. Since when had he started to casually think of Sherlock being cute?_

* * *

John didn't bother relating that last bit to Sherlock, though he nearly didn't check himself in time as he rambled off the fresh memory. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"Do you know what happened next?" John asked after a minute.

"No."

John observed his friend closely for a moment and then laughed incredulously. "Sherlock, I'm your best friend for Christ's sake. I may not be as observant as you, but I do have a good knack of telling when you're lying. What are you hiding from me?"

"I have nothing to hide from you," Sherlock said placidly.

The more Sherlock feigned nonchalance, the angrier John felt himself becoming. "You have barely spoken to me all week because you remembered something that scared the shit out of you. Why is it so hard for you to trust me and just _tell_ me what's on your mind?"

"I have nothing further to discuss on this matter, John. Drop it."

John clenched his hands into fists. "You could at least have the decency to tell me why you're pretending not to know what I'm talking about. Even if you're scared by what you remember, which by the way might end up coming in handy for me, you could at least say why you feel the need to lie."

Sherlock made no reply.

"Look Sherlock, I know that something bad happened. My mind has been pretty much screaming that at me ever since we've arrived. I don't know whether this something happened to you or me, or even to both of us. If you know what happened, I just… I just need to know. I need to remember, and I'm worried that I can't do it on my own."

Sherlock again made no reply, so John stood and walked to the door, feeling the need to be alone.

"John." The name caught in Sherlock's throat.

"What?"

"You didn't –" Sherlock broke off, apparently unable to finish his sentence. He swallowed and tried again. "That night of the breakthrough, we went off to confront the serial killer. And you didn't…"

John suddenly realized what Sherlock was trying to say, and he didn't need Sherlock to finish the unspoken words, so he said them himself. "I didn't make it."

"I don't remember the details – but - yes."

John wondered if he said the words aloud, would the reality sink in? His brain reeled at the concept. He died.

He _died_.

_He_ died.

John distantly heard Sherlock's voice as he tried to rouse him, but John abruptly realized that he couldn't handle discussing this with anyone tonight. He closed his eyes and shook his head tiredly. "Not tonight, please… I can't deal with this now, Sherlock," he said, voice strained as he tried to keep it from breaking, before quickly leaving Sherlock alone with the fire. "Not tonight."

John fled up to his room and dived under the covers, and willed sleep to come and take him away from his own anxiety. But it did not as his mind was too busy trying to process his whirling thoughts. He couldn't understand what was happening – he had died, and yet his heart was beating and air was still entering his lungs. John knew this as surely as he knew that Sherlock was in the room downstairs. What he didn't know was what all this meant. Did it have anything to do with why they were here in this time? And could he even return to his own time? What about Sherlock, had he died too? And if Sherlock could go back and John couldn't, what would Sherlock do?

Confused and angry, John's breathing became shallower and faster. Afraid of having a panic attack, he reminded himself to breath steadily counting slowly, in and out. His heart slowed down with the reassuring rhythm, but the air seemed to burn in his throat and leave a bad taste in his mouth. Why were all his questions unanswerable?

_Let me live_, he murmured, remembering how the phrase had helped him survive in Afghanistan. _Please God, let me live._

* * *

By the time John woke up in the morning, Sherlock was gone again, and John almost felt relieved that he didn't have to face him. The complete realization of what had happened to him in the twenty-first century had shaken him to his core and he didn't know what to do about it, much less think about it. Sherlock's presence was now a constant reminder of what had happened, and John wasn't equal to facing up to cold facts just yet. He needed to be alone for now.

John pottered around the flat trying to distract himself until he could go to work that afternoon. Once he arrived at the office, he worked vigorously, barely giving a hello to Brandon, Lesley, and the other men at the paper who he had actually formed a bond with since his first day. They seemed instinctively aware that something was wrong with John today, and were quick to give him space. Even Smith, whose friend James was still missing, left him entirely alone and ceased his disdainful observations for the afternoon. But John barely noticed their consideration, wanting to immerse himself in writing, and maybe lose part of himself in the process. He needed to be able to stop thinking for a time.

John stayed purposefully late, only arriving back in Baker Street after nine. He dawdled on the way home, trying to delay the inevitable conversation that he must have with Sherlock. Perhaps it was because he knew that even Sherlock wouldn't have the answers to his questions. When he finally got inside, he went upstairs and saw Sherlock sitting in an armchair in the living room. John lingered awkwardly on the threshold, unsure if he should continue upstairs or go in and speak to the detective. He didn't feel sure of anything anymore.

"Any news on the case?" he asked at last.

Sherlock looked up at him, like he hadn't noticed him standing there until now. "John, I-"

John held up a hand to stop him. "Please, Sherlock. I know we need to talk about this. But I don't think I can right now, later. Just – just tell me about the case now. I need a distraction."

Sherlock looked hesitant for a moment longer, and then he obeyed John's wish. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and removed a piece of paper, carefully wrapped in tissue. "This letter was sent to George Lusk of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee yesterday afternoon. I borrowed it from the inspectors to take a closer look. It is a fake however; written either by a shoddy journalist or a member of the public wishing to create a stir. It reveals little about the case. It does show itself to be a case study on the subject of public hysteria and a willingness to send in letters that waste police time however." John noticed that Sherlock was speaking unusually fast, almost like he was nervous, although John decided not to comment on it.

"Whitechapel Vigilance Committee? Aren't they those volunteers patrolling around to help prevent more murders?" John asked, seating himself and clearing his voice to stop it from trembling. "My paper recently interviewed George Lusk, I think. He seemed decent, but a bit clueless. I doubt that wandering around late at night is going to really help all that much. Can I open the letter?"

Sherlock nodded. "Go ahead." He extended his hand for John to take it. John gently unfolded the letter.

'_From hell_

_Mr Lusk _

_Sor_

_I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer_

_signed _

_Catch me when you Can Mishter Lusk.'_

"Well he certainly has a few spelling problems," John remarked sardonically as he passed the letter back to Sherlock. "Anything else?"

"Not pertaining to the case," Sherlock responded with a meaningful look.

"Sherlock," John intoned warningly.

"I am hardly known for tact, John, but even I can recognize when one needs to talk about something. I would be – neglecting you, so to speak, if I didn't insist on talking about this."

"I haven't come to terms with it. What do you expect me to say?"

"How? Why? Who? Those questions would suffice to start. Then perhaps we could move onto the subject of what will happen if you try to return to the twenty first century, and whether you will die again in the process. And from there you could ask if your death caused us to travel back in time in the first place, perhaps to give you a second chance or as some preventative measure, and I would reply that I don't yet know."

"You think I haven't been worrying about this all day?" John finally exploded. "These thoughts have been torturing me ever since I went to bed. I can't _stop_ thinking over and over about the fact that I should be a bloody corpse right now! I try to sleep so I don't have to think, but low and behold I start dreaming and then I have to relive my death in my nightmares. I can't get away from _any_ of this." He paused to breathe in angry gasps. "And what's the point in asking you, Sherlock? You don't have any answers and neither do I! So what's the fucking point of all of this?

"And honestly?" John continued after another pause, the emotion draining slowly from his voice. "Right now? I don't care. I don't care who killed me, I don't care how or why. I'm still trying to process that it happened. Because I'm alive right now. I have the ability to think about my own death – how is that even possible? I don't have a brain like yours; I can't even begin to understand anything about this. And I –" His voice began to shake and he broke off, afraid to break down in front of his friend. "I'm here now," he continued desperately, "isn't that enough?"

"It may be for some," Sherlock replied softly, "but perhaps not for yourself, and certainly not for me."

John did not bother arguing with the detective. Instead he nodded firmly, snapping himself into his stoic soldier mentality, and stood. "Right then. Good night." He slowly left the room, and the detective did not call him back.

John stripped off in his room and crawled under his covers, trying to focus on his tired and bewildered body. Because of the lack of sleep the previous night and his argument with Sherlock, the exhaustion hit him rapidly and he slept heavily. John did not even stir when Sherlock quietly opened the door to his room and watched over him for a few minutes, before retiring to his own bed.

* * *

**Coming up in chapter 9: **_The final murder of the canonical five takes place, the investigation continues with higher stakes, and John gets a visit from a familiar face that he initially cannot place._


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Folks, once again I'm sorry for the delay. The problem was in ****between procrastination and lack of inspiration, I decided to completely revamp the ending so I had to rewrite a good deal of this chapter. But I think it'll be better in the long run, so I hope it's worth the wait.**

**Thank you once again to all readers and reviewers, and my wonderfully patient and ever excellent beta Rairakku!**

**Onwards!**

* * *

_**Chapter 9**_

The following morning John had gotten up early, unable to sleep again because of the nightmares. He was frustrated that he still couldn't remember them or his own death fully, something he wasn't sure whether it was good or bad. John left his room to have breakfast, and he didn't even have the time to seat himself at the breakfast table before Sherlock spoke.

"The last body of the canonical five was discovered an hour ago," he stated, brandishing a telegram in his hand. "Scotland Yard just had this delivered. They want us at the crime scene as soon as possible." John realized that Sherlock was silently asking if John wanted to join him.

John jumped at the opportunity, glad to have something to take his mind away from his grim fears. John grabbed some toast and took a swig of tea before following Sherlock downstairs.

They got into a waiting hansom cab and began their journey. On the way to the crime scene, his nightmares still fresh in his memory, he absently thought of how he might never wander around in his stripy pajamas nor see Sherlock in his silk dressing gown; it was considered 'indecorous' in this time period, according to Sherlock, and John would probably never return to see it in the modern day. John tried to force himself into a better mood by reflecting that Sherlock wandering around the flat in nothing but a bed sheet was hardly the paradigm of normalcy in modern times. But unfortunately the memories only succeeded in depressing him further.

As they grew closer to their destination, John recalled something that he had meant to mention to Sherlock before any of this happened.

"Sherlock, I was wondering. At the newspaper I took over the position of a man who went missing, Mr. James. I was wondering, do you think maybe he was involved in this case somehow?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, he seems to have just vanished off the face of the earth. Maybe something happened to him, like what happened to me in the alley except he wasn't so lucky. What if he got involved somehow and the serial killer decided to silence him?"

Sherlock did not reply straight away. "It is possible," he said at length, "but as you took over his position, I assume he did not cover crime correspondence? Unless you can uncover evidence to prove that he was investigating the case on his own initiative, it is impossible to know. He may have disappeared for other reasons, financial or family related."

"Right. Well, will you look into it?"

John turned to look at Sherlock, and recognized the torn feeling in the detective's eyes. Clearly the other man was trying to think of a way to refuse in such a way as to not upset John given his current state of upset. "John, we need to focus on –"

"Fine," John interjected with a hint of stiffness, "forget about it. Forget I said anything." I'll follow this up alone if I have to, John added mentally. John wasn't entirely sure why Mr. James' appearance seemed so important to him, but he felt an urge, a need to do something. Maybe it was because it reminded John of his own predicament and it could give him the illusion of control. Or maybe it just offered the chance of getting away from Sherlock's concerned eyes and awkward silences when they weren't working.

They completed the rest of the journey in silence, Sherlock contemplating the case and John thinking of what he could do about Mr. James.

* * *

It had taken forty minutes in total to arrive at the residence in question. Once they got out of the cab, John was immediately struck by the squalor and stench surrounding them. Excrement and mud threatened to cling to their shoes, and John had to watch his footing, involuntarily wrinkling his nose as he did so. This was the most impoverished part of London he had visited so far, and John suspected that it would only worsen when they got to the crime scene itself. They walked towards one of the more unsavory looking dwellings, which had policemen standing around outside it, and they were directed upstairs.

The stairs up to the first floor groaned and creaked under Sherlock and John's weight, the house clearly dilapidated and in need of many repairs. At the top of the steps another police officer stood guard outside a wooden door. John was surprised that the office shook Sherlock's hand with such equanimity as he obviously recognized them, or at least Sherlock. John felt even more startled when he realized it was the same officer Sherlock has intimidated in order to find the Inspectors at the beginning of the case.

"Prepare yourselves. This is the worst one yet," the officer, Bobby, warned with a significant look, before letting them into the room.

The smell assaulted their nostrils before they had even fully entered. The stench of blood was sickening, and already there was the buzz of flies starting to swarm. John had seen his fair share of murders with Sherlock and mutilated bodies in Afghanistan, but this was almost without precedent. The body was lying naked in the middle of a decrepit bed with the abdomen torn open. Almost every inch of skin looked like it was coated in blood or torn away altogether. The woman's internal organs were on display, viciously ripped out into open for everyone to see, with some body parts scattered crudely about the room. The brutality of it was enough to make John feel slightly light-headed.

John wondered as he took in the brutal murder in front of him if this was what happened to him back in the twenty first century. Had someone stabbed him until he stopped breathing, had his eyes bulged out in fear as he tried to stop the inevitable? Were his insides taken apart and strewn out, and his corpse left around the flat for someone to see –

John grimaced, his reaction prompting Sherlock to look at him with something resembling concern. John waved a hand at him to let him know that he was all right, and he moved closer to the body, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut.

"That – that would have taken some time to do," said John once Sherlock had finished inspecting the room. The detective hadn't even looked at the body first, instead examining the trails of blood leading away from it and whipping out a large magnifying glass to look around the walls and floor.

Sherlock merely nodded. "The extensive disfiguration makes it difficult to gather any useful evidence from the body. But we can safely assume that the cause of death was once again a slash to the throat and the mutilation carried out post-mortem. I estimate that it would have taken almost an hour to perform this savagery."

"Do the police still think it was a doctor who killed these women?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "A doctor is not the only person who could purchase a six inch knife and cut a dead body into pieces. Anyone with enough capacity for violence, rather than a knowledge of anatomy, would be able to do this."

"But people with these kind of violent urges are hardly common, Sherlock. I've _never_ in my life seen something this – this…" John gestured with his hand, words failing him.

"Then that will help us to narrow down the suspects," returned Sherlock firmly. "I have finished examining the scene."

"Anything helpful here?"

"Some. It is tiresome not having modern science to aid in DNA analysis or spectrometers for substance analysis. I have discovered some facts however. She tried to escape, judging by the scratch marks on the door. But you can see that the scratch marks are not long in length or depth, meaning that he overpowered her quickly.

"Beyond that, there is little of use to us. Our time would be better spent in beginning the interviews immediately and finding out more about our victim and the hours leading up to her death." Sherlock paused at the door. "Are you coming?" he asked.

John looked at him as if to say 'naturally'. "I'm hardly going to remain in here all day with a decaying corpse."

John was startled to see that Sherlock appeared to be on the brink of asking him some sort of question, evidently personal in nature judging by the detective's hesitation. But instead he said nothing, nodding abruptly and sweeping out of the room as was his custom. John followed with a heavy heart. He had known that the violence and brutality were going to increase, but even that knowledge had not been enough to prepare him for a scene so inhumane that he wished to erase it from his mind permanently. It was a cruel reminder of how gruesome death could be.

* * *

The interviews were conducted at Scotland Yard, and Sherlock and John sat in on them while the officers did their work. Much of the information they heard was a confirmation of what they already suspected. It was established that the landlord's assistant, a pale and clammy young man, had discovered the body of Mary Jane Kelly that morning when he came to collect her overdue rent. After his initial panic had subsided, he had hurriedly called the police in and had gone to bed with the horrors of what he saw still impressed on his mind.

The victim, Mary Jane Kelly, most definitely followed the same pattern as the previous women – she had also fallen into prostitution and lived deep in the heart of Whitechapel. But all the other information they received was of little consequence. Eyewitness testimony was contradictory as to where she was last seen, with the landlord's wife claiming to have spotted Mary Jane at a time that John suspected was three hours after the victim's death.

Other similar accounts were brought forward, and John sensed Sherlock's growing frustration. John wasn't able to remain for all the interviews however, having to leave and miss the last three in order to make his way to the newspaper office. As he left, Sherlock seemed aggravated, evidently thinking that many of the witnesses were wasting their time.

But John was glad to be gone – hearing the woman's friends and family talk about her death had given rise to unpleasant thoughts. Throughout the interviews he found it difficult to stop himself from supposing how his family would talk about it. How would Harry react to the news that her big brother was dead? Would she bother showing up the funeral at all? And how would his other friends react? Mike and the army guys probably wouldn't tear up the way Mary Jane's friends had, but he could still picture the looks of shock on their faces when they found out. And how would Sherlock get on without him…

It was safe to say that work was a welcome relief from these thoughts. Clearly crime scenes weren't going to be as an effective distraction as he had thought this morning.

* * *

Later that evening when Sherlock returned home, John cautiously prodded him for information. "Did you get anything from the interviews I missed?"

"The majority of the information was irrelevant, as I'm sure you are aware. There was only one person who piqued my interest, the first man that I interviewed after you left. But even he showed little promise in the end, which was highly vexing."

"What did he have to say?"

"His name was George Hutchinson. He gave a detailed account of seeing the victim talking to a 'Jewish-looking' man, and taking him up to her room around two thirty in the morning. Although the time frame fits, I doubt that Mr. Hutchinson would have been able to describe the colour of this man's eyelashes from across the street in the middle of the night, as he claimed he was able to do. He is undoubtedly looking to sell his story to the papers, but I may reexamine his testimony to see if there was a grain of truth I missed."

"That sounds somewhat unlikely though," mused John. "So essentially, we have almost no new useful information? Well then, recap everything for me. What do we know so far? What have we discovered and what could we still be missing?"

"There are two killers. The more brutal one, the one who killed Mary Jane, kills and mutilates ferociously. He does not move the bodies, instead leaving them where they were killed. This latest murder has led me to believe that this is undoubtedly because the time it takes to butcher his victims does not allow for body removal. The other killer is less brutal, and he seems to find victims closer to our residence and then moves them to Whitechapel. That was the killer you encountered." Sherlock concluded his lecture, drumming his long fingers against his thigh with impatience.

"So Elizabeth Stride, the woman I found in the alley, was murdered by the mover, and the second woman that night, Eddowes, was killed by the non-mover," John surmised, trying to keep his voice devoid of pity; it wouldn't be of any use to them now. "What about the first two women?"

"Our very first victim was moved, the second was not."

"Are the killers in competition?"

Sherlock nodded appreciatively. "That thought had also struck me. All of the facts are before us, but I am missing something obvious."

"All the facts?"

"That was the last of the canonical five, John," Sherlock said. "That woman is the last body we are going to see pertaining to this case. After her there are no known links to these killers. Something happens to stop the killings."

"What, they both die or kill each other off? Or maybe they move to another city? How do you know that they don't keep killing but the bodies are hidden better?"

"It seems convenient and unlikely that both would die at the same time, the same goes for both moving cities. As for killing each other, surely then the bodies would be found and give rise to suspicion? And if these men are in competition, they _want_ their bodies to be found. They want some kind of credit or attention. They wouldn't hide the bodies now that they're more comfortable with their killings. No, something else occurs to change everything. Hopefully the change will be something that's consequential enough for me to notice as it was seemingly insignificant to everyone else of this time period."

Sherlock stood up and began to put on his coat. "I'm going back to the station to see what it is I missed. Are you coming back with me?"

John shook his head. "No. I think – I think I'll stay here and rest for a bit. It's been a long day. It's been a long week."

Sherlock looked unsure of himself. "If you wish me to stay…"

"It's okay," John said, aware that this was Sherlock's way of trying to comfort him and he allowed himself to revel in it for a moment. "I think I'd like to be alone for a bit. I have stuff to think over. You go on. I'll see you later."

Sherlock nodded and then left.

* * *

A half hour later when John was about to go upstairs to bed, his landlady entered the room and informed him that a guest was waiting on him downstairs. With a puzzled look John thanked her and asked her to send the person up, wondering who would want to visit him at this hour.

The door was thrown open and the man who walked in was familiar; it was Mr. Wentworth from the newspaper office. John tried to hide his feeling of surprise as his colleague walked over to shake hands with him. What on earth was he doing here? Was it customary for acquaintances to call in unannounced like this? John wasn't sure, and thus didn't know if he should be on his guard or not.

"Mr. Watson," he said, "a pleasure to see you again. I thought that a call on you was long overdue. You must forgive my reticence at the office; I'm not overly communicative while I work."

"How kind of you," John replied, carefully trying to keep his tone civil. "I understand the feeling, sometimes it is best to focus on work and not be distracted by the people around you. Please take a seat. Would you like some tea?"

"Please, I would very much appreciate it."

John rang the bell and a platter of tea things was soon settled before them. John poured the tea, and then realized that there was no sugar for the guest. He moved to the main table to find the bowl and spoon before turning back to Mr. Wentworth and handing it to him.

"Have you worked at the paper long?" John asked, resuming his seat and taking a gulp of tea.

"About a year or two, which is long enough I should think. It wasn't my profession of choice, but I needed the money to survive in London. And it is a respectable paper, nothing that I would be ashamed of doing. And once I begin to work at something, I give it my all."

"What was your profession of choice?"

"I wished to be a painter, but alas, I fear that my skill was not good enough to live up to my aspirations. And you? You do not seem to me the type of man who would desire to be a journalist?"

John chuckled, privately thinking how true that statement was. "Indeed, no. Journalism was not my first port of call either. I wanted to be a doctor but… I didn't have the means to study it."

Mr. Wentworth smiled kindly. "That is true of many of us. But I dare say that the demands of the job keep you busy?"

"Yes, yes they do. Like you said, it is a living, and not a bad one at that."

They settled into a comfortable silence and John felt pleasantly warm and snug in his chair by the fire with his cup of tea. His previous anxiety and seeds of doubt about the unexpected visitor faded away. Of course Mr. Wentworth meant no harm. John had not felt so at ease in a long time. It was like all the recent unpleasantness and realizations had faded away.

"How is your flatmate getting along with the case? Sherlock Holmes isn't it?"

Wentworth's question shot through John's consciousness like a bullet, startling him into alertness. "How do you know about my flatmate?" John asked, voice strained with tension.

"Oh, he's been in the papers, didn't you know? It's not common for the police to consult outsiders, particularly on such a high profile case. The press were quite keen to report it."

John frowned, his suspicions now thoroughly aroused. Sherlock would have told him if he had been reported about, wouldn't he? "I don't know what you're talking about. And Holmes most certainly hasn't been in the papers. I would have seen it myself."

Mr. Wentworth smiled, but now John thought it looked more predatory than kind. "You are far more observant than your friend gives you credit for," he said. "I know about Mr. Holmes because he interviewed me today at Scotland Yard. I'm surprised he didn't mention it to you."

John narrowed his eyes and wondered if he could find his old gun to protect himself if it became necessary. Then he remembered that he didn't have a gun in the first place; his army pistol only existed in the twenty first century. "I don't recall there being a witness interviewed by the name of Wentworth."

"That's because there wasn't one. The name I gave was Hutchinson."

"Why would you give a false –"

The penny dropped like it was made of lead and had settled uncomfortably in John's chest. Wentworth, bloody Wentworth who he had served tea and bloody biscuits! Oh god! John cursed himself for being so stupid, for being so damn trusting. He tried to get up and make a dash for the man, hoping that the advantage of surprise would catch Wentworth off guard. But he found that his body had sagged in the chair, unable to move a muscle.

Wentworth stood up and moved over to him. "I'm impressed, Mr. Watson. Usually such a large dosage of sleeping medication would make one unconscious much faster. Though I must say I'm surprised you didn't realize my identity sooner; I'm almost a bit affronted in all honesty. Surely knocking you unconscious and leaving you in an alley left more of an impression on you? Apparently not."

John tried to reply but found that his tongue felt too heavy in his mouth to articulate any words beyond 'guhr'.

"It is best not to struggle, Watson; you will merely feel worse when you wake up. Now, Mr. Holmes has interrupted me and my rival quite rudely with his investigations. I'm hoping that you will help me send the gentleman a message. I'm sure you won't mind. Besides, I didn't fully have my way with you in the alley. Usually it is only the women that I go after, but in your case I will make an exception. Even if it is just to prove a point."

Oh god, John thought, oh god. He tried to fight with all his strength. He wanted to scream, shout and order his body to get away now because otherwise he wouldn't survive. Wentworth's promise to finish off what he had started in the alley terrified him and he didn't doubt the killer's words for a second. As he struggled, his mind torturously whispered to him that maybe Mr. James had been in the same position not too long ago, and that evidently he had not survived.

But all his struggles were futile; John was too far gone to be able to protect himself anymore. He hadn't stood a chance once he had lifted the tea to his lips. God, how he wished he hadn't turned his back when he went to get the sugar and gave Wentworth his chance. With these thoughts and regrets ringing in his ears, John felt consciousness slipping away from him. Before he blacked out, one particular thought started running through his head. "Sherlock, don't come after me and do something stupid. Sherlock. Sherlock…"

* * *

**Coming up in chapter 10:** _John spends some time with his captor, the flashbacks are revealed in their entirety, and a showdown to end all showdowns takes place, which will ultimately seal the fate of everyone._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_John was chasing Sherlock, but he couldn't keep up. No matter how hard he tried, the tall detective's coat swished around corners just before he could make it to the same spot. As he grew tired, he stopped seeing the coat altogether and lost sight of him. John called out, but he was alone._

_John turned and saw, with a visible start, that a figure was standing near him; someone must have crept up on him. He couldn't see the figure's face, even as he approached and pushed John against a wall. He touched John, his abdomen, his shoulder, his arm and throat. And then the figure disappeared._

_The ground began to approach John's face at an alarming rate, and then he came into contact it with a rough crack. Each breath came with a stuttered gasp, and he looking down he saw blood covering him, dark red everywhere. Pain and tiredness crippled him. Numbness was slowly overtaking him and he couldn't muster the energy to call for help. What was happening to him? _

_He thought he heard footsteps running towards him, a voice calling out his name with panic. Then everything went grey, and then black._

John woke with a violent start, with restraints biting into his wrists, threatening to cut off the blood supply to his fingers and leave deep red welts where they dug into his skin. Hard wood from the chair he was tied to pressed against his thighs and lower back. The images from the familiar nightmare were imprinted on his brain. Unlike all the previous times, he finally remembered everything.

A voice sounded from above John, and he scrunched up his eyes involuntarily in pain.

"Ah Mr. Watson, good to see you awake. I should commend you; few are as adept at fighting off narcotics. But fortuitously I had already factored this into my plans."

John's eyes snapped open, focusing on Wentworth standing over him. The killer's appearance was wild and frenzied, but it was the long bladed knife in his hands that grabbed John's attention. Wentworth didn't seem to be paying heed to the weapon however, instead looking into John's face with an expression almost resembling fondness.

"I suspect that Mr. Holmes will be joining us soon."

"Don't touchshim," John slurred, unable to articulate clearly while the last vestiges of the drug remained in his system. His eyes finally adjusted to the low light, allowing him to see the dark grubby surroundings of a typical abandoned warehouse. How clichéd, he thought disparagingly.

"I don't think you are in any position to make demands," Wentworth said dangerously. "Be patient. This will all be over soon enough."

Where 'm I?"

Wentworth made a clucking noise with his tongue. "Now, now, that isn't of much consequence to you, Mr. Watson. That is the question that Mr. Holmes must answer. If he is half as clever as he seems, it won't take long."

"Why me?"

"Isn't it obvious? Don't pretend that you hadn't mentioned Mr. James' disappearance to your flatmate?"

With a jolt, the truth of Wentworth's words struck John as he remembered the conversation he had had with Sherlock that very morning.

"You know of me, and eventually Mr. Holmes would use you to get to me. I was foolish to introduce myself to you at all without searching your background. You are a liability now, as well as the detective."

"But I didn't even know that it was you, I don't know anything about you!" John exclaimed. "I couldn't have figured any of it out without-"

Cool metal pressed softly against the sweat-slicked skin of his neck, forcing John to abruptly cease speaking, progressing from his neck up to his cheek. John closed his eyes, hoping to Christ that Sherlock would arrive before Wentworth got bored and decided to slit his throat.

"Perhaps," Wentworth said after savouring John's reaction." Perhaps not. Maybe I felt like branching out, and you provided a handy scapegoat." His hand came up to pat John's other cheek. "Now enough talk. Holmes will be arriving soon."

The knife lifted from his neck, and John allowed himself to keep his eyes closed for one more second, before opening them again. Wentworth had moved a few meters away, with his back now turned. John had to get out before Sherlock had the chance to do something stupid.

John began to recon his surroundings in an attempt to plan an escape. While the area near him was dimly lit, the room was expansive although mostly covered in darkness. Where John presumed the furthest corners to be were shrouded in black, denying him accurate information. On the more visible sections of the walls however, he could make out two exits, but they were still at a considerable distance from his chair. Crates were piled around the room randomly, but thick dust was everywhere and the place had evidently been uninhabited for quite some time.

Satisfied with his scouting, John gently pulled at his restraints, testing them so Wentworth wouldn't hear his struggles. But from the way his shoulders burned and his hands threatened to crack, John quickly realized he couldn't hope to free himself without aid. Next he used his feet to tap against the wood of the chair, testing its strength. The legs seemed sturdy enough, though he supposed that he might be able to get enough leverage to hoist himself up.

He shook his head; it wouldn't work. The sound would alert Wentworth almost instantly, and without the use of his hands, he had no hope of beating him and that ferocious looking knife.

Restlessness and anger overtook him because he couldn't do anything to help himself, much less Sherlock, should the idiot arrive. Eventually his mind began to play back his nightmare again now that he was at liberty to do so. Each detail burned in his memory, and he knew that it, or something akin to it, must have happened in real life. He let himself brood over the implications of that in his mind.

After what could have been an hour or five, the sound of a door scraping open jolted John back into alertness from his extended brooding. It was followed by the deep, condescending voice of the man he knew so well.

"Mr. Wentworth. You have something of mine that was not yours to take."

Sherlock emerged from the shadows and walked towards them, stopping a few meters away. His face looked impassive, but John could see that his fists were clenched within his coat pockets. He quickly glanced over at John, his eyes evidently cataloguing any injuries John might have, before flicking back to Wentworth.

"I have been waiting some time to meet you," replied Wentworth. "I see that you discovered my identity just a bit too late to help your friend. But you figured out our location quite quickly. Congratulations. I do hope that you managed to figure everything else out too?"

Sherlock snorted. "Yes. It was not difficult."

"Well, proceed in that case. Explain it all to me!"

John looked up at Sherlock desperately, trying to communicate to Sherlock not antagonize the killer while he still had the upper hand and they were both in danger.

"When I returned to Scotland Yard and reread your interview, it struck me that I had missed something about you. I returned to find Watson absent, and the card you had left with our landlady downstairs. Then the connections began to fall into place. The 'forged' letters published with such ease in the newspapers, the interview with Mr. Lusk by your paper - all of it made sense."

"And the other killer?" Wentworth prompted, "What of him?"

"Obvious. Bobby, the police officer Watson and I encountered on our first visit to Scotland Yard."

John couldn't help but stifle a gasp. How long had Sherlock known, how had he figured it out? And why the fuck had he not told him?

"When we first met, he seemed unusually taken aback by my use of blackmail. I put it down to a nervous disposition at the time. However, I began to notice how he volunteered to assist at crime scenes, despite almost never being on duty at the corresponding time. Furthermore, when I inquired of Detective Spratling about who had initiated my warrant, Bobby was named as the chief officer demanding an investigation into my actions. While they could potentially be coincidences, it struck me as terrifically unlikely." As Sherlock spoke, he stood still and straight, almost smirking at the end of his monologue; even at a time like this, the pride of his deductions never quite disappeared.

Wentworth cocked an eyebrow, impressed. "And how did you find us here?"

"From the address on the business card, I was able to locate your lodgings and sneak past the landlady. While there, I discovered some discarded clothes in your bedchambers. These clothes showed traces of red dirt, specifically gravel that is only present at a handful of locations in London. You couldn't have traveled far while carrying a man like Watson unconscious. Thus, I eliminated locations at a significant distance from Baker Street and those neither remote nor quiet enough. That left me with one place; this one."

"Mr. Holmes, you are very good indeed. I can see why the police wanted to keep you around. They were _hopeless_ without you. I might never have been caught otherwise. But," Wentworth said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "we really must now decide on the next course of action. I do not intend to be hanged for my crimes. So some leverage is in order. Although I must ask, you did not tell me _why_ I committed these crimes. Surely you have not forgotten such an important detail?"

Sherlock's eyes glistened at the verbal challenge. "A quick tour through your rooms gave me more than enough information. The photos, the old letters kept near by your bed? The frugality and dirty wedding band that you evidently never wear anymore? In addition to items of children's clothing and drawings scattered around and kept in meticulous condition, unlike the rest of your possessions? I think I can hazard a guess from these clues. You target prostitutes who remind you of your estranged wife, who whored herself out for money. You were so ashamed by what she had become that you killed her and moved to London to start over. Your irrational hatred of other women who have turned to prostitution, particularly after failed marriages, is a rather good motivation for murder. Rather brutal murders, at that, so brutal that you don't ever have time to even move the bodies.

"But there's more to it, of course. You had a child, a young boy. During my tour of your apartment I discovered some of your old artwork and easels. It's expensive material that only a professional, or budding profession, would use. It is plausible that at one time you intended to be a professional painter, but clearly it was not a success judging by your new career in journalism. Did you lack income and thus the means to pay for proper medical attention when your son became sick? Did he die as a result of your own negligence, your poverty? I'm sure all of the resulting rage could be put to use by motivating yourself to murder."

Wentworth growled, but Sherlock continued to speak over him, sounding dangerous. "Now, Mr. Wentworth, how about we cut to the issues of important. Let Watson go, and we shall figure something out." The unspoken threat of what would happen if Watson was not let go hung in the air.

Wentworth hissed with anger, and pressed the knife back to John's throat while directing his ashen face towards Sherlock. John fervently wished that Sherlock would bloody think before antagonizing killers who had the upper hand.

"You think you can make empty threats that frighten me? You seem to forget, Mr. Holmes, how exactly I murdered several women, and I won't hesitate to do it to your friend if needs be."

Sherlock looked ready to reply, but then paused suddenly, listening intently. "If I am not mistaken, Bobby has just arrived."

A violent crash came from the other side of the room, confirming Bobby's presence and revealing his shock at having been discovered.

"Come out, Bobby, join us!" called out Sherlock. "There is little use in skulking in the shadows."

Bobby slowly emerged, also holding a knife in his hand but making no move to close the distance between himself and the rest of them any further. He looked uncertain, like he didn't know what was expected of him in the situation. "Don't try anything funny," he warned, although it wasn't clear whom he was addressing. Then he turned to Sherlock and pointed at him with the knife. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah yes, I have neglected to explain. The note you received informing you of this location, was not in fact sent by your rival, but by me. It was a shot in the dark; I couldn't be sure if you were aware of each other's identities, but I was fortunately correct. And if I might inquire, since I have already told you so much," he added, turning back to Wentworth, "how did each of you discover the other's identity? I surmise that you have not met before."

Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but Wentworth spoke over him.

"Do not answer!" he ordered angrily, silencing the younger man. Sherlock frowned, but did not look altogether unsurprised. He turned back to Bobby.

"I'm surprised you showed up, Bobby. But of course, you could not resist the opportunity for bloodshed. Unlike Wentworth's guilty motives, you just like to kill, don't you? Did you encounter a woman, some whore, some miserable, powerless wretch while you were on the job and have your way with her? When did you realize that you liked it? That you couldn't stop killing, and the more you cut them open, the better it felt?"

"Enough!" Wentworth snarled, knife still pressed up against John's throat, somewhat nettled by the attention shift to his rival. Sherlock's eyes briefly passed over him.

"Forgive my curiosity. I suppose," Sherlock continued coldly, "I suppose we should continue now that we are all present."

John could feel the hand at his neck tense with indecision; Wentworth had evidently been thrown by the appearance of his rival. Bobby was beginning to look like he regretted coming, having not known about the hostage situation. Eventually Wentworth made up his mind.

"We're dealing with you two first," he said, nodding at Sherlock. "Give up your investigation into the murders, or I will kill Mr. Watson in front of you."

"Aside from the fact that you don't intend to let either of us leave here alive," Sherlock sneered, "what makes you think that that will make me give up the case?"

John and Wentworth were both startled, and the former confused, by the conviction in Sherlock's voice. "He is your friend. You wouldn't have come here if you didn't intend to save him."

"I intended to save him, but not at the cost of failing to expose you. The case overrides everything. If I must lose Watson over this, then so be it. Now let's stop these useless games."

John felt his heart constricting at these words. He – surely he didn't actually mean it? They were friends; Sherlock would never let him die like this, not after everything they'd done together so far, like the incident at the pool and the whole debacle with Moriarty! And Sherlock himself had discussed John's death and led John to believe that he had been sincerely affected by it. But one look into Sherlock's impassive face had the doctor doubting the sincerity of his own thoughts, and in that moment he felt a pit of hollowness and sorrow swallow him. He wouldn't have entirely minded if Wentworth struck him down.

Wentworth appeared similarly thrown by Sherlock's statement, and he was too stunned to act.

Bobby, who had been quietly observing the situation, finally made his move. He raised his knife and launched himself at Wentworth, evidently deeming him the larger threat. John reacted quickly, swinging his all of his weight to one side, toppling the chair over and landing with a grunt, and he felt his restraints loosen around his wrists. He quickly pulled against them, desperate to be free.

Bobby tackled Wentworth to the floor nearby, and they fiercely struggled for dominance, each trying to avoid the fatal edge of the other's weapon.

Sherlock swiftly moved forward, attempting to release John from the chair, a grotesque scream filling the air just as Sherlock reached him. John craned his neck to look behind them, and shouted at Sherlock to move. The detective darted to the side, prompted by John's words and didn't even bother to look behind him.

Wentworth was approaching from behind while blood spurted sickeningly from Bobby's neck, the rest of his body utterly limp. Sherlock's sudden movement had its intended effect, catching Wentworth off guard, sending him stumbling and off-balance into empty air. The detective used the opportunity to turn and strike the killer viciously to the floor, where Wentworth landed hard on his front, driving the knife into his chest.

John watched with a grimace as Sherlock turned Wentworth over. The knife was lodged between the man's ribs, and his breath rattled loudly in the suddenly silent room for a few seconds before the life drained from his eyes.

Satisfied that Wentworth was no longer a threat, Sherlock turned to help John up onto his feet.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, eyes searching John's face for any sign of pain.

"Fine, I'm fine. It looks like Bobby got more of a fight than he bargained for." John rounded on Sherlock. "And just how long did you know that these two were the killers? Were you planning on telling me?"

Sherlock had the decency to look guilty. "I assure you, I only realized Wentworth's involvement after you were taken. I did not tell you my suspicions about Bobby because I could not yet prove them. Additionally, you would not have been able to act normally around him, which would have given the game away. In any case, it is of little significance now that they are dead."

John was slightly mollified, but still testily vented the remainder of his frustration. "But why the hell did you tell Bobby to show up here? One serial killer is quite enough to get on with for an evening!"

Sherlock looked less guilty now as he explained his reasoning. "I had no proof against him, John. His presence tonight sealed his guilt, not to mention it was an effective way to solve the case in its entirety."

"Bloody idiotic is what it was," John grumbled insistently, but the last of his annoyance slipping away into relief that the both of them came out of the situation unharmed and that an end to this godforsaken case was in sight. "So uh-" he gestured to the bodies, "what do we do?"

"Leave them here," Sherlock commanded. "We'll remove any trace of our involvement and leave the bodies here for the police to find. With any good fortune, given the lack of activity in the area, it will be a considerable time before anyone finds them."

They began to slowly walk towards one of the doors leading outside. With the cessation of their conversation, an awkward pause loomed in its place, and Sherlock looked at John as if he wished to say something important but couldn't figure out how to phrase it. Eventually the detective found the words and stopped walking as he spoke. "You are aware that I said those words in order to throw Wentworth off and leave him open to attack? About allowing you to be sacrificed, I mean."

John felt his heart start to beat properly again, and smiled hesitantly. "O-of course."

"John, you have never been a good liar," Sherlock smiled.

"What?"

"I saw your face. You thought for a moment that I would abandon you. I–I would neverdo that, under any circumstances. I do not view you as a purely useful presence. You are a necessary addition."

John raised an unconvinced eyebrow at this declaration, and Sherlock's face suddenly shifted in annoyance at John's reaction. "I am not good with _sentiment,_ John; I am attempting to explain myself to you. You are important to me and my life would be incomplete without your continued presence in it."

"Oh. Well, uh thanks. And the same goes for me, obviously."

Simultaneously, Sherlock said, "In fact, I have grown startlingly attracted to you in the past few months."

John's heart stopped. "What? Wait…You… _What? _Since when have you been attracted to anyone?"

Sherlock looked somewhere between annoyed and abashed by John's response. "Just because I do not act on my bodily instincts does not mean that I am incapable of recognizing allure or of feeling attraction. My eyes cannot fail to show me what you look like, and I happen to think you are attractive. Were you not straight and I married to my work I would have considered pursuing a relationship with you quite some time ago."

"I'm bisexual Sherlock," John muttered with a flustered expression.

"Oh." Sherlock looked as if his entire conceptions of the world had just imploded. "_Oh_."

"Yeah. And for the record, I am – attracted to you too." In the awkward silence that followed, John wished he could take those words and cram them back into his mouth. "Uhm, you know, just forget that I said anything. This probably isn't the appropriate place to talk anyway, what with two dead serial killers on the floor in a clichéd, abandoned warehouse in the middle of bloody nowhere. We should uh- we should get going."

"Wait! I –" Sherlock looked positively apprehensive. "If I were to – that is to say – become… Unmarried to my work. Divorced but on friendly terms, so to speak. Where would that leave us?"

John's eyes filled with hope at the apprehensive question. "Where would you like it to leave us?"

"I would like it to leave us closer and more intimate than we currently are," said Sherlock in a deeper, confident tone, taking a step closer towards John as if to illustrate his words with gesture.

John was about to reciprocate when he suddenly felt the earth beneath him begin to shake violently. His first instinct was to glance up at Sherlock, who looked equally alarmed. With a resounding crash, parts of the building began to collapse around them. John swung his gaze upward and saw that there was no longer a ceiling, just a swirling blackness above that was descending. The whole world was falling apart.

Without a thought his hand sought out Sherlock's and squeezed it tightly. Then the blackness overtook his vision, and John felt them collapse to the floor from the motion of the building shaking. He heard the remainder of the building cave in around them, covering both him and Sherlock in layers of rubble and dust.

What felt like only a few seconds later, John opened his eyes to a scene that was no longer black. The sky was bright above, and the sound of traffic greeted his ears. He felt pressure on his hand, and turned on his side, seeing that Sherlock was still pressed against him. A voice sounded overhead.

"What the bloody hell are you two doing here lying in the middle of the road?"

John sat up like a shot. "Lestrade?!"

The Detective Inspector looked down on them, looking torn between amusement and annoyance. "What's the matter with you two? Mrs. Hudson said the pair of you just disappeared for a couple of days, and then I find you sitting in the middle of Westminster Bridge like you've seen a ghost! What the hell is going on?"

Sherlock was the first on his feet, and he grabbed Lestrade's shoulders with urgency. "Lestrade, this is of the utmost importance; what year is it?"

"Year? What? 2012 of course, what else would it be?"

"We're home," John breathed, not loud enough for the other two to hear. "We're finally home."

* * *

**A/N: **Readers, I once again apologize for the delay in the chapter. There were significant rewrites and then just general summer life got in the way. I really hope you are satisfied with the result in any case (I warn you that you should be, because I originally intended to kill John off again at the end of this chapter! But alas melodrama isn't my forte, so I changed it to this.)

My profuse thanks to Rairakku123, who helps to make this story plot-hole free and readable.

If you have the time, please R&R and I'll be forever grateful.

**Coming up in chapter 11:** _After arriving home, Sherlock tries to figure out what prompted the time reversal, and what, if anything, has changed since they were last in the twenty-first century._


End file.
